Strawberry Fields
by Ameeya
Summary: Spike blanks out while searching for the Slayer, and finds himself in a magicinduced liplock. In the heat of confusion, he offers Buffy a truce, and throws a series of events in motion that will change both their lives forever.
1. Chapter 1

**Strawberry Fields**

Author: Ameeya Hawke  
Rating: **Very STRONG R, **for language, violence, and adult content.  
Timeline: S.2, _I Only Have Eyes For You._ Veers drastically from canon.  
Summary: Spike blanks out while searching for the Slayer, and finds himself in a magic-induced liplock. In the heat of confusion, he offers Buffy a truce, and throws a series of events in motion that will change both their lives forever.  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em; I'm just playing. Please oh please, do not sue me.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Spike huffed and wedged a cigarette between his lips. This was bloody interesting. Like one of those bad horror flicks, only with a lot more humor. Granted, seeing something supernatural wasn't exactly novel; he just wasn't used to seeing buildings literally swarmed with a wall of wasps.

Nor was he used to watching the Slayer walk around looking as bloody dazed as she did. Perhaps if he'd had more time, he would have taken a second to appreciate the glossy, almost drugged look behind her eyes. She walked right by him, after all, without so much as a blink. Mite rude considering this was supposed to be his big reveal. Dangerous predator, walking around on two legs when he had, so recently, been confined to the wheelchair that she had put him in, and she didn't even glance in his direction.

If nothing else, though, this should be interesting. He didn't reckon Angelus would leave the mansion for a while, even if his grandsire did seem interested in sniffing out the so-called possession going down at Sunnydale High.

Considering that the Slayer looked to be experiencing a bit of the _possession_ herself, Spike figured he had the upper hand. She couldn't go into stake-first-ask-questions-later mode if she wasn't all there upstairs. If he was lucky, he might get a word in before she shook off the ghosties and introduced him to the business end of her stake.

Then again, knowing this particular slayer, he was better off not pushing his luck.

A sigh rolled off his shoulders. If he went on like this, he'd just end up talking himself in circles. The fact remained that he had no other option. Like it or not, Buffy was it. He was out of his chair, but that didn't mean he had the strength to take on Angelus plus minions, not to mention the woman that he'd formerly devoted the whole of his unlife to serving. He wouldn't become careless on account of his wounded pride.

Hopefully, the Slayer wasn't so thick that she wouldn't be able to see the logic in that. Spike sighed again and tossed his half-smoked fag to the pavement, stomping on it once for good measure. Then again, the bloody chit was nearly as stubborn as he was. She didn't like admitting weakness, even if acknowledging one's shortcomings cleared the pathway to success. He'd heard it all—fuck, he'd lived it—and his life was hardly a living example of learning from his mistakes.

But in the matter of Angelus and Dru, there was no other option. Spike would dust and his deranged family would end the world. Bad for him; bad for Buffy.

He figured he had the selling points lined up properly. The Slayer would have to be off her rocker not to jump at the first offer he put on the table.

Then again, judging by the glazed look in her eyes as she'd walked into the school, perhaps they weren't too far from the alternative.

Spike laughed shortly and shook his head. "Right, here it goes," he said. The words fell bland against the cold night air, coaxing another laugh.

There was every chance he'd completely lost his head. Bloody figured. The century with Drusilla hadn't cost his sanity a dime; it took coming to the Hellmouth to the Slayer and her wanker of a honey to make him go officially carrot-top. He could only hope that Buffy's human penchant for guilt and do-gooder work had played enough on her conscience to make her as loopy as he.

A smirk tugged on his lips, and he again conjured the image of Buffy walking through a wall of wasps. Something told him that he was on the right track.

Sunnydale High had an entirely different atmosphere when the lights were on and he wasn't tossing around tables and jabbing things into the ceiling. Spike prowled the halls leisurely, following Buffy's scent as his eyes roamed the bulletin boards and darted into empty classrooms. This was the sort of place that made him grateful for the tortuous upbringing he'd suffered through lifetimes prior; youth seemed to grow crueler with every generation.

He sucked in a breath when he finally caught up with her. She was moving sluggishly down the main hall, the air thick with the scent of her tears. And he didn't know why, but that knowledge was humbling. It served as a cold reminder that she had lost things as well. She had lost almost everything.

Granted, Spike didn't much care for what the Slayer suffered. Way he figured it, she deserved that pain, and then some. It was her formerly virgin pussy that had caused all this, wasn't it? Had she been able to keep her legs shut, none of this would have happened. Dru would still be at his side. Angelus would be shoved inside that drastically unfunny soul. And Spike wouldn't be doing the unthinkable; wouldn't be approaching the Slayer for _help,_ of all things ridiculous.

_Bloody bint. _

God, he'd be happy when things were back as they belonged. Then he could off the chit good and proper.

"Look," he said loudly, sucking in a deep breath when Buffy's sluggish trek down the hall came to an abrupt halt. Great. She was going to launch into battle before he could get a word in; then he'd be too dusty or she'd be too dead to do either of them any bit of good. "First things first, I didn't come here to kill you."

He paused and waited. And waited. And waited.

And nothing. Spike blinked.

Well, that was rude. The least she could do was acknowledge his thoughtfulness. Any self-respecting slayer's knees would be knocking together at the prospect of facing him—an assuredly pissed off slayer-killer. Hell, he'd just spent months of his unlife that he'd never get back rotting away in a bloody wheelchair, forced to watch Angelus fuck Dru into the bloody ground. If he hadn't already committed to this throwing-it-in-with-the-enemy rot, he'd be drinking from the Slayer's throat now.

"Slayer?"

Buffy just stood there in the middle of the hall, her back to him.

A frown fell over his face, and the surge of irritation fell to confusion. Perhaps he'd underestimated the rumors of a ghostly invasion. His own experience with the spirit-world notwithstanding, he'd never given hauntings too much credit. "You _can_ hear me, right?"

There was another long silence. And nothing.

Spike expelled a deep breath and hazarded a cautious step forward. "Buffy?" he asked softly. "Slayer, are you—"

"You're the only one."

He froze. That made bugger-all sense.

"The only one?" he repeated, befuddled. "The only one who can help you bring them down, you mean? Point of fact, love, that's the reason I'm here to begin with. I've got a proposition for you. An' before you turn me down, just take into consideration that I'm here an' not trying to kill you. That means—"

"You're the only one," she said again.

Again, Spike blinked. "Yeah, pet, we jus' covered this."

"The only person I can talk to."

Whatever sense he'd tried to decipher flew completely out the window. His brow furrowed in confusion. "Uhhh, Slayer, you sure you're all rested from that fever? Gotta say, injecting yourself with a nasty bug, as bloody funny as it was, had to have worn away at what li'l sense you have trapped in that thick skull of yours."

Or maybe she meant that he was the only one she could talk to inasmuch that they were in the same boat. They'd both lost their lovers to Angelus.

But then Buffy turned, and the second her eyes met his, his insides quivered. There was something there. Something monumental. Something earth-shattering. "You can't make me disappear just because you say it's over."

There was no way to spin that. No way at all.

_It's not the Slayer. _

Not the Slayer. Someone else is driving.

"What?"

It was the last intelligible word that escaped his lips. The next second, fog settled around his head, and the physical world simply fell away.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

At seventeen, Buffy had experienced a fair share of kisses. While she wasn't as experienced in the realm of tonsil hockey as, oh say, Cordelia, she was a girl of former popularity and one or two slapdash pre-Angel boyfriends who had enjoyed sticking their tongues down her throat. She'd also shared a couple quick kisses with Owen, the poetry enthusiast that she'd crushed on hard the year before. Yes, as far as first-date kisses went, she was quite the Guru.

Then Angel had come along, and her past of sloppy, slobbery kisses had been erased with lips made of sin. He'd kiss her, and her world spiraled out of control. Her skin hummed, her pulse raced, and her heart about exploded. When he kissed her, she felt like dying.

The lips that were caressing hers now were most certainly _not_ Angel's. If Angel's lips were made of sin, these were made of redemption. 

She felt like she'd stepped into a dream or a painting—something perfect but intangible. Something that she'd spent her life reaching for; something she only touched when her eyes were closed. Cool hands cupped her face as a foreign tongue explored her mouth. He was whimpering against her, murmuring sweet little nothings into her mouth, stroking her skin with his fingertips. It was the most sensual moment of her life, and she didn't even know his name.

Pretty much because she had yet to open her eyes. She was too afraid of ruining the illusion. Undoubtedly, she was at home in bed, enjoying a nice, naughty wet-dream. Or she'd blacked out while dancing at the Bronze…and ew. Some guy just randomly comes by and makes with the kissage? That was just wigsome.

Only not so, because she was buttery goo and that was always a good thing. So if she had blacked out at the Bronze and was being taken advantage of by creepy-guy, she'd let it slide. Anyone connected to these lips couldn't be _that_ bad. These lips were lips of good. Good, good lips. She'd happily marry the body attached to these lips, if only to stake her earthbound ownership on their magic touch.

"Mmm…"

Then she opened her eyes, and the world around her crashed.

Spike must have sensed it the second that she did, for his eyes flew open and she found herself suddenly drowning in a crystal ocean. No man's eyes should ever be _that_ blue. Especially if said man was the proprietor of the Lips of Good.

_Okay, Buffy, prioritize. _

"SPIKE?!" 

Those totally illegal eyes of his flashed with an intoxicating mixture of arousal and confusion. Then he stepped back, shoving her away from him as his face contorted in disgust. The same disgust that she was surely mirroring back at him…that was, if she'd managed to pick her jaw up off the floor and roll her tongue back inside her mouth.

_Spike? _Spike owned the Lips of Good?

And why the hell had he been kissing her?

It didn't take long to remember; thankfully, recollection spilled inward before she could open her mouth and level some humiliating accusation his way. Something along the lines of: "_How dare you sneak in here and kiss me?"_ when he was obviously as bewildered and shaken as she was.

The disgust, though, was a bit much. Her ego was fragile enough as it was. She didn't need to know that kissing her equaled gross for men; even if he was her mortal enemy. Come on. _Some_ allowances ought to be made.

"Ghosts," she blurted, suddenly desperate to cover her tracks. Maybe Spike didn't know about the school being possessed. Maybe he just thought she wanted him real bad. And maybe she should stop shaking and staring at his Lips of Good and get back to what she'd come here to do. "The school is possessed by ghosts…and hey, why are you out of your chair?"

Spike blinked at her, his mouth somewhat agape, his chest heaving deep, needless pants.

And then it came back to her. Everything. The pained conversation between Grace and James. Shooting Spike in the chest. Watching him fall over the railing. Watching him fall, and being swallowed in despair. Going back to the music room and turning on the record. And then she'd put the gun to her head, and she would have fired if Spike hadn't been there to stop her.

No. That wasn't quite right.

_Grace. It was Grace. _

"We heal," he said suddenly.

Buffy shook her head and met his eyes reluctantly, ashamed to discover that she'd been staring at his mouth again. It was really unfair. It was _completely_ unfair. Why, out of all the men in the world—all the living, breathing, non-vampire men—did _he_ get _those_ lips?

Furthermore, she'd been so transfixed on that beautiful mouth of his that she completely missed out on what he'd said. And knowing her luck, it was probably important. "What?" 

"Vamps. We heal. Bloody lot faster than humans, too."

"Oh." _Oh. _Right. The chair—or rather, the lack of the chair. Spike was standing in front of her on two healed legs, and he'd just saved her life. He'd saved her from blowing her brains out and given her a kiss to end all kisses on top of that. 

Or maybe the kiss had been Grace, too. Maybe Spike kissed like a girl.

The thought inspired a nervous, high-pitched titter.

"Slayer?"

"You kissed me."

Ugh. _Verbal diarrhea much? _

Why oh why did the floor not open up and swallow her? Why? It was the Hellmouth; one would think that the floor would be more with the random opening and swallowing of red-faced slayers during seconds of blind stupidity.

Spike stared at her. "No, you kissed me," he retorted, perfecting an impression of a three-year-old.

"You were all with the lunging and the grabby!"

"Oh, don't bloody flatter yourself!"

"Flatter? You think I _want_ vamp slobber all over my shirt?" She forced a grimace and began wiping at her top with forced vehemence. Truth be told, she couldn't stop shaking. She flexed her hands into fists, her eyes taking a quick survey of the room, searching for something to hold onto to prevent herself from lunging into his arms. It had been so long since anyone had held her like he had just seconds ago. Since she'd been kissed like that—since she'd felt alive.

And it was fake. Every second. Every blissful touch was pure fabrication.

"Well," Spike snapped, "of the two of us, _you_ are bloody more likely to snog the enemy. Why don't you tell me?"

He _would_ throw that in her face.

Buffy waited for the perfect retort to come to her, and her shoulders slumped when it missed its cue. "This is pointless," she decided.

"You're telling me," he snarled. "Gonna take a biblical flood of alcohol to get the slayer taste outta my mouth. Don't know how your precious _Angel_ could stomach it." He made a face and wiped his mouth with the back of his duster sleeve, and though Buffy was convinced that much was designed only to add insult to injury, his barb hit its mark with a vengeance. "Look, you daft bint, I was only coming here to see if you would…"

The air between them fell eerily silent. She waited. His face contorted into a scowl, and he did not continue.

"You're out of your chair," she repeated, flexing her hands again. Her lips were still tingling—even the intrusion of Spike's snide remarks and all the reality they bore with them couldn't stop her insane want to leap back into what the spirits had started. The past few weeks had taken a disastrous toll on her heart. She hadn't known how starved she was for contact. How much she missed the simple pleasure of a loving embrace. And while Spike would sooner saw off his foot than play the part of the strong male arms to rock her to sleep at night, right now, with the taste of him in her mouth, her mind was fogged and she could see no one else.

Not that Buffy needed those strong male arms; it was just comforting. It made her feel less alone when she knew, ultimately, that she was all she had. It provided a sweet lie—a lie she'd been all too willing to live without the intrusion of reality. And even so, Angel had never really offered to play the role of her male lead and take up the task of holding her at night. The implication was always there, sure, but he'd turn around and vanish just when things became interesting. Until the end. Until the one time he did hold her in his arms…until he bolted from bed and left her to his soulless counterpart.

Buffy blinked. Spike was staring at her.

"What?"

"You were off," he said slowly, his tone belittling. She suddenly felt like an unruly child that had just broken the same rule fifteen times in a row. 

"Off?"

"You mentioned the chair again, an' then you went off."

"You're not in your chair."

Spike nodded, the incredulous look on his face never waning. "A fact, I believe, we've more than established."

"Why haven't you tried to kill me?"

At that, he balked, and it pleased her that she'd finally caught him off guard. "Well," he replied, blinking, "why haven't _you_ tried to kill _me?" _

Because my lips are still numb from kissage, and it's gone to my brain. 

"I asked you first."

He sneered and rocked on his heels. "I asked you second," he retorted.

Buffy frowned. "You can't do that. It's cheating."

The look on his face fell from disbelieving to amused, and the change enchanted her. She'd never seen Spike amused—not genuinely amused, anyway. There had been that sadistic smirk when he'd thought she and Angel were about to burn at the hand of the Judge, and the proud little grin when he'd first stepped out of the shadows at the Bronze. But nothing that suggested that he was honest-to-God humored.

It was disconcerting. Seeing Spike look at her like a human, particularly after he'd kissed her lips off, threw her for a loop. She wanted him evil and threatening. She wanted some of her own back.

She wanted to stop shaking, dammit. It was just Spike. Spike, whose ass should have been well and truly handed to him by now.

Damn that mouth of his.

"I didn't come here to fight. I came here because…I wanted…" He paused again, his brow furrowing and his eyes going somewhere that she could not follow. Then, before she could blink, he pivoted on his heel, shaking his head as though to free himself of a wayward thought. "You know what, Slayer? Forget it. Call it a fleeting bout of insanity, yeah? It was bound to happen sometime with the company I keep."

She was tempted to agree, but curiosity—and a strange want to keep things civil, if not tense and awkward—stopped her. "But you—"

"Forget it."

"You came here to—"

"An' now I'm leaving."

_Without even trying to kill me? _

That was so…not Spike.

"Jus' bloody forget it," he yelled over his shoulder. "An' don't get too cozy, Slayer. Next time I see you, it'll be my fangs in your throat."

The haunted tone in his voice remained with her the rest of the night.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He had a hand braced against the shower wall, cool water cascading over his head and running down his body. He had a mouthful of her taste, and his lips hadn't stopped tingling. In the many years he'd spent wandering the earth, he'd never thought that a simple kiss could make his insides melt.

God. He was such a wanker, and as tonight had so painfully exploited, he'd been without sex too long. Dru's illness hadn't allowed them to enjoy any play in the bedroom even before Angelus, and unlike many others of his kind, Spike was a one-woman-vamp. If he couldn't have Dru, he didn't want anyone. She was his reason for living, after all. She was his salvation. She was his everything.

That didn't explain why he currently had his left hand wrapped around his cock, or why the Slayer's name was on his lips. It didn't explain why his mind was haunted with the image of her on her knees before him, that perfect mouth of hers sucking him into oblivion.

A long whimper tore through his throat. He was sick. He was bloody certifiable.

He was coming hard.

"Fuck," he gasped, banging his head against the wall, his hips jerking forward violently. "Buffy."

Buffy. _Buffy. _When had she become _Buffy _to him?

It wasn't right. None of what had happened tonight was right. He'd gone to her in protest. He'd gone to her as a last bloody resort. He hadn't gone to see her to have her press her succulent little body against his and kiss him in ways that made him wonder if his lips had been neglected for the past century.

Tonight was about getting his life back on track. About bringing Angelus down. About getting the wanker out of the picture so that Dru would come to her senses and remember who had been there for her without fault.

Spike trembled and shut off the shower.

_Buffy._

Buffy had gotten in the way. Buffy and her luscious little mouth. He'd never considered himself the sort of bloke that got so bloody turned on because of a simple kiss; then again, nothing about that kiss had been simple. That kiss had been the sort that would inspire men to storm kingdoms just to win a second taste.

That didn't change things. A kiss, in the end, was still _just _a kiss. Buffy's lips might be delicious, but he'd never know how the rest of her tasted. Never. Tonight had been a mistake. A faux pas. A pathetic stunt played by two miserable excuses for spooks. It changed nothing. Had he been in his right mind, his mouth would never have gotten so close.

Spike frowned. Well, no, that wasn't right. He still intended to rip her throat out, and that required mouth-on-Buffy action. But in an entirely different context. That was a step necessary to ensure that he got to lick her blood off his fingers. It didn't mean he wanted to pound his cock into her tight little pussy.

He groaned as his disobedient cock hardened again.

_Serves you right for thinking of slayer pussy._

"Spike?"

His head shot up, Drusilla's scent flooding his nostrils. He was standing starkers in the middle of the room.

Standing, as in not in his wheelchair.

Bleeding fuck. He should have thought before he jumped in the shower. He'd just needed to wash Buffy off his skin as soon as possible.

Pity it didn't work.

It took only a second to sprint across the room. Spike snatched his jeans from where he'd tossed them on the bed, wrestled with his t-shirt, and threw his duster over his shoulders, only to crash haphazardly into the wheelchair with a gasp as Dru's head poked into the room.

Spike blinked at her, panting. His hair was wet. His skin smelled like soap. Had Drusilla possessed any of her faculties, she would have known something was up immediately.

He was fortunate, then, that the love of his unlife was uninhibitedly insane.

"Spike, my sweet," she cooed, twirling as she entered the room. "Daddy has a surprise for you."

His stomach lurched and his heart sank. So tonight was going to be one of the few nights that Angelus paid attention to him. There was no way this could be good; it merely meant that he'd grown bored with fucking Drusilla in front of the help and wanted to up Spike's torment by making him watch as another bloke tasted his girl's quim.

"Is that right?" he drawled, wincing as his hands gripped the wheels of the chair. After this was over, he was going to burn the sodding thing. "What's that, pet?"

"He says you've been a bad doggie."

At that, Spike froze.

"Have you, my sweet prince? Have you been a bad doggie?" Drusilla smirked and sauntered forward, her hands running a tantalizing trail down her hips and up again until she was pulling at her own nipples through the thin fabric of her top. "Waiting till it burns. The fiddle won't be played until the city's on fire. You want it. Daddy says so."

He swallowed hard and forced a smile. "I always want it, ducks," he murmured, his eyes falling to her breasts. He knew how they tasted. He knew how every inch of Drusilla tasted. And he loved her taste.

But looking at her, watching her, he couldn't help but yearn for something hot to offset the cold. She was cold. She'd been cold from the beginning. He'd never known any touch that wasn't cold.

From where Buffy had held his face earlier tonight, he was still sizzling with warmth. His lips had yet to stop burning.

And the burn was so _fucking _good, he could barely stand it.

"You want to play in sunshine."

Spike's eyes jerked upward and his throat ran dry. "Dru—"

His protest died the second before Angelus's intrusive scent hit the air. It was over then. He knew, meeting his grandsire's eyes, that it was over. Everything was over. The plan he'd carefully stitched together had been betrayed, likely by the aroma of slayer musk. Or perhaps Angelus had spied him in his dazed and hasty retreat of the Sunnydale campus. Perhaps. In the state he'd been in, Spike wouldn't have noticed a ticker tape parade, much less a giant vampire with more forehead than face. Even if said giant vampire just happened to be his least favorite relative.

"Spike," Angelus said quietly, nodding.

That much told him everything. Angelus knew.

_Well bollocks._

Spike met his grandsire's dark eyes and nodded stoically. "We gonna dance around this, mate?" he asked, arching a brow. "'Cause, truth be told, there are only so many clichés I can handle at a time."

"There is nothing to dance around, as far as I'm concerned," Angelus replied, offering little more than an apathetic shrug. "You can walk."

"Yes. I can also talk," Spike agreed. "I've been told that I have a lovely singing voice."

"And yet you're still in that chair."

"Well, we've gotten to know each other so well over the past few months." He rolled his eyes, his countenance not betraying how fast his mind was racing. "Can't blame me if you've been distracted, mate. What with playing practical jokes on the Slayer's friends an' tattlin' to her mum about popping her cherry, it's a bloody wonder that you've noticed anything else." His tossed a meaningful, however wasted glance to Dru. "Much as I can recall, it's none of your bloody business what I can do. I don't ask for progress reports on _your _numerous injuries. As it is, the Slayer has landed you quite a few."

"Sarcasm will get you nowhere, William."

He shook his head. "That's such a shame."

"What I can't understand is…what were you trying to pull? Kill Buffy and _show me _for sticking it to your woman? Hmm?" Angelus stalked forward, a dangerous shadow crossing his face. "Have I truly underestimated your ego that much?"

He snickered. "There are great many things you've underestimated," he drawled. _"Mate."_

There was a moment of silent contemplation. Angelus simply stared at him.

Then the wanker's leg shot out and the wheel chair vanished, throwing Spike to the ground and smashing noisily into the wall behind him. "No need for dramatics, then," the elder vampire sneered. "I never figured you the security-blanket type. And yeah, I might be a little off my game, but time hasn't changed you much. I know you."

Spike pressed his palms to the floor and shoved himself to his feet. Know him? Angelus knew him? What a bloody joke. Angelus had never known him. Never. The great git had attempted to mold him into something that he wasn't. He had an idea of what Spike was. Of who Spike was. He'd never bothered to get to know him. Not once. He knew his habits, perhaps, and that he treasured Dru above all others. But that wasn't knowing him. That was knowing _about _him, and there was a bloody big difference.

"You didn't plan to kill her, then," Angelus mused, crossing his arms, his brows perking. "And I say that only because you're here and not dust."

Spike snorted ineloquently. His grandsire's lack of confidence in people other than his own over-inflated ego was not so much surprising as it was annoying. The fact remained that Angelus had not once been able to corner a slayer and snap her neck properly. Not once. Not even when he was snogging the stupid chit. And the great sod hated it that a vampire he considered as fumbling and incompetent as Spike had not once, but twice faced a slayer and walked away with another notch on his belt.

"Ye of li'l faith," he said neutrally, enjoying the ire twist up a notch on Angelus's face. The wanker just hated it when his audience refused to give him a reaction.

"Well, she's still alive, too," the elder continued, "but I figured that was a given."

"My prince wants to play in sunshine," Dru observed. "He's tasted honey and he wants more. More of the pretty little drops of honey."

Angelus perked a brow. "So _that's _what that odor is."

"Sod off."

"You tried to get into her _pants? _What? Are you _that _desperate?"

Spike's eyes darkened. "You're the one who said I had to bloody love her to kill her, right? Though you haven't been quite as quick to demonstrate that neat li'l tidbit as I'd think. After all, you had the bint's grubby paws all over you for months an' you _still _haven't managed to do her in good an' proper?"

Angelus was predictably unbothered by his criticism. "I have plans for the Slayer," he replied, shrugging.

"Yeah. Sing me another one."

"You doubt."

"You've given me li'l reason to do anything else." He nodded to Dru, ignoring the pang that struck his heart at the harsh apathy that danced behind her cold eyes. It wasn't like he was used to seeing warmth when she looked at him. No, his dark princess had never regarded him with tenderness or affection. Even when she appeared touched at the things he did for her—the small and the very big—the spark of gratitude was always overshadowed by a larger presence of blatant indifference. She didn't care for him. Not like a lover, at least. More like a favored pet. And while he'd known it for a while—for years, though he'd never wanted to admit it—there was something about seeing it now. Now that he'd tasted true warmth and purity. "'Sides," he continued, "since you've taken mine, I figured I'd sneak a taste of yours. See if her pussy really is tight enough to chase a soul away."

Just once he'd like to strike a nerve. He'd like Angelus's cool countenance to fail him completely. He'd like to send the bastard into a jealous rage the likes of which made the ground tremble and the skies quiver. However, even knowing how possessive his grandsire was over what he considered to be his property, there was nothing but cruel humor in his elder's eyes.

Spike knew that it was obvious to every vamp in proximity that his dick hadn't gotten any action aside from his left hand all evening. Showers couldn't wash off the scent of sex. Not for vamps. And perhaps that was why Angelus didn't give a bugger about what had happened with Buffy tonight. Or why Angelus wasn't worried that he might have gotten close enough to know what the girl's silken lips tasted like.

_Buffy._

He'd left her confused. Her eyes wide and expectant, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen from his kisses. He'd left Buffy and he'd returned to his self-made hell. Where Dru looked at him with cold, uncaring eyes. Where he was consigned to the role of the family punch-line. Where there was nothing to do but waste away as the woman he'd devoted eternity to sold herself over and over to another man in the time between planning the apocalypse.

He'd left Buffy standing in that classroom because of what she'd done to him.

What _had _she done to him?

"Trust me, William," Angelus said softly, snapping him back to the present. "Nothing there worth tasting."

Spike blinked stupidly and fought the impulse to laugh. Nothing there worth tasting? Hadn't this prat ever snogged the Slayer?

Hadn't his world turned over when he had?

Spike turned his eyes to the ground. Buffy. He'd left her and returned home. And why? Because finding her tongue down his throat was a little surprising; his reaction to her even more so. In those precious few seconds, he'd experienced more, felt more, from a girl possessed by a couple of spooks than he ever had from Dru.

A ghost had given him more warmth than the woman he loved. And his skin was still burning.

No more. No sodding more. He would go back. He would go back to Buffy. He would try again.

He just hoped her lips didn't get in the way.

And, knowing how sweet she tasted, that he could keep his hands to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

No matter how many times she repeated herself, that glossy, confused look refused to vacate her Watcher's eyes. It was annoying. There were certainly more important things to worry with than her bizarre liaison with a recently non-crippled vampire. Things like her ex-boyfriend who had, among other things, developed a penchant for making her friends' lives a living hell.

For whatever reason, attempting to convey as much to Giles was not as simple as it should have been. He wanted to mull over every detail—every millisecond she'd spent all not-of-the-dead in Spike's presence. He wanted to know why they hadn't fought. Why Spike had come to her in the first place. And he especially wanted to know how James and Grace's haunting had influenced their behavior.

Buffy snorted inwardly. Yeah. She was really going to share sordid stories of Spike's lips with her Watcher. And Xander was going to be the next President of the United States.

"No," she said dryly, rolling her eyes. "For the millionth time, no. Spike didn't tell me why he was following me. And seeing as I'm standing here, bored and annoyed and very much of the alive, I don't think it really matters."

Giles narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. "Your views on what is and isn't important notwithstanding, the fact remains that a dangerous slayer-killer sought you out and then proceeded to _not _engage you in battle."

"I know. I was right there."

"It had to be something extraordinary, don't you think?"

"No," Buffy retorted dryly, rolling her eyes. "I think he wanted to exchange banana-nut-muffin recipes."

Willow glanced up from where she was hunched over a pile of books. What she was researching, Buffy didn't know. For the past few days, when they weren't fending off whatever Angel or the PTB sent their way, the redhead was usually buried nose-deep in a book. Not that it was doing anyone any good. Sunnydale citizens were still showing up dead with not-so-mysterious neck wounds, no blood, and twisted messages from the Slayer's once one-and-only.

The chances that the anecdote for Angel's killing spree rested on some aged page in Giles's library were obsolete.

"You make banana-nut muffins?" she asked, her eyes wide. Then she paused, shifted uncomfortably, and glanced down. "Okay, so I only caught the end of that. Did I mention I'm really hungry?"

Buffy snickered. "I was just explaining to Giles for the umpteenth time that I have no earthly idea what Spike wanted with me. He didn't stay long enough. I think he was a little shook up."

"Presumably because of what happened while the two of you were possessed," Giles agreed, staring at her intently.

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Well, he came to you for a reason, and then backtracked after the possession was over. Sounds to me, Buffy, that it has quite a bit to do with what occurred."

She waved a dismissive hand, doing her best to keep herself introverted. The memory of Spike's melt-worthy kisses had fueled fantasies about the gorgeous vampire that she'd thought long dead. Fantasies that had haunted her longer than she wanted to admit. From the second that he stepped out of the shadows at the Bronze, locked eyes with her, and called her by that stupid pet name. And then on Parent Teacher Night, she'd returned home, tense and excited from their first fight. Her body tingled at the thought of how he felt against her. Hard. Masculine. Aroused. Even when he was kicking the crap out of her, there was a part of him that remained infinitely _male, _and separated from the larger part of him that was demon.

At first, she'd felt like she was cheating on Angel when she thought of Spike. After all, until Angel had barreled into her life, she'd never had an inappropriate thought about a vampire. They were all the same. All game-face, snarly, and quick with the dustage. Spike was definitely _not _the same. He certainly wasn't like Angel or the Master, but he was immeasurably different from the fledglings she was accustomed to slaying. There was a part of him that remained alive. There was a part of him that could not be bogged down by what he was, and was rather defined by _who _he was.

Buffy wasn't blind; she'd seen that from the start. Spike was different. He was different, and they were enemies.

Until last night, remembering that hadn't been too difficult. In the days following the ruined St. Vigeous festival, her relationship with Angel had taken off, and her appreciation of Spike's fineness—not to mention his sexy accent—had taken a backseat to her souled boyfriend. Sure, she'd make a quick appraisal of the blond Brit's abs or whatever body part was most prominently displayed through all that tight clothing, but it only lasted for a blink. Until she threw a punch his way, or hit him in the head with something heavy and quip uselessly to herself as a large organ crushed his sexy self. Angel, until the very end, had been the center of her universe when it came to men.

Since Angel had rejoined the Unsouled and Proud Club for Vamps, however, Buffy hadn't felt like noticing the opposite sex at all. Not until last night.

Not until she found herself kissing Spike.

Not until all her naughty, forgotten fantasies were suddenly substantiated. In the midst of her heartache—of the guilt-crushing knowledge that she had, time and time again, let Angel slip through her fingers—she'd reawakened. She'd opened her eyes, and for a blink, the part of her that was consumed with guilt quieted, and she could forget about her failure. That people were dying because she couldn't bring herself to do the inevitable. That Giles had lost the woman that he loved because of her. For a sliver of a second, Buffy had ceased being the Slayer and had simply been a girl. Any girl. Any girl kissing any guy. She'd had her coveted _normal, _and the taste had been so sweet it was a miracle she hadn't collapsed in tears.

It was fleeting, of course. She _wasn't _just any girl. She was the Slayer, and Spike was a vampire. Spike was a vampire who very much wanted her dead. Angel was still out there—still killing people. And it was still her fault.

However, Spike had given her something back. Something that reality _couldn't _take away. And even if his gift was an accident—even if he could care less about what their stolen kiss had given her—to Buffy, it meant the world.

"Buffy?"

She started and shook her head, forcing her thoughts to the back of her mind. If Giles knew that Spike's lips had restored her faith in men and her own femininity, he'd accuse her of having some sick vamp fetish. This was just one of those things that he could never understand.

"Hmm?"

Her Watcher's eyes were saturated in concern. "Are you sure you don't want to tell us what happened?"

Buffy pasted on a grin and shrugged. "As I've said, nothing much happened. Spike came in after James had me. I think it took a few minutes before Grace nabbed him, 'cause he sounded…I dunno, confused for one thing. Confused and almost…resigned."

"Resigned?"

Oh crap. She was talking about it. How had that happened? "Like I was his last resort, I guess. Like it was the last place in the world he wanted to be. I dunno…I might be imagining things. I was kind of possessed at the time."

Giles cleared his throat and offered a jerky nod. "Go on," he encouraged.

Willow placed down her book and nodded her encouragement. "Yeah, this might be helpful."

Helpful for what? For non-research? Buffy groaned inwardly, her will encouraging her mouth to shut up and keep the rest for herself, but her mouth had a way of running without giving her will or her mind much consideration. She really needed to get that checked out. "We did the whole sordid song-and-dance," she continued. "I shot him. He fell over the railing. I walked to the music room and put on the Flamingos. And I would've shot myself had Spike not rushed in and taken the gun from me."

The redhead frowned. "He was still possessed, right?"

"Umm. Yeah." Buffy's eyes narrowed. Where had she been all night? "He was still possessed. It was Grace all the way. Grace didn't want James to kill himself…and since Grace's…I dunno…_essence _was trapped in a body that couldn't be killed with a gunshot, she got to reach me—_James_—in time to let him know." She paused. "It was a mistake. The shooting. I don't…I don't know what James was thinking with, you know, bringing the gun in the first place…but what I felt when I shot Spike…" She shivered and her stomach turned. There had never been a more frightening moment than the widening of Spike's eyes as he grasped his wound, and the love-drenched betrayal that he'd washed her in before toppling over the railing. There was nothing about shooting him—or Grace—that had been intentional. "What I felt…it wasn't on purpose. He didn't kill Grace on purpose."

The library fell quiet. Buffy glanced up and shifted awkwardly. "Not that it…matters. To us. I mean, the ghosts are gone and everything is back to its normal, Hellmouthy state. Spike didn't kill me, I didn't kill him—"

Giles heaved an exasperated sigh. "Yes, yes, we know that. You simply haven't been very forthcoming in what happened between you two to lead to your pacifism."

"Not forthcoming? I just told you—"

"What happened between James and Grace, yes. That much was rather obvious."

Buffy slumped, pouting. "I didn't notice you stopping me from _stating _the obvious," she grumbled.

"There is something you're keeping from us."

Willow looked confused at that, but that didn't stop her from shooting a mildly accusatory glance in her friend's direction. "You're keeping stuff from us?"

"No."

"You honestly can't expect me to believe that Spike had you alone and did _nothing _about it. You put him in a wheelchair, Buffy…and he's a vampire. They are not creatures capable of forgiveness or change. If he didn't attack you, then—"

It angered her to hear her Watcher so carelessly clumping Spike together in the overall generalization of vampires. He was different. Spike was different. He was evil, yes, but he was hardly a mindless bloodsucking machine. He had amazing capacity for feelings of compassion and empathy. Hell, Buffy knew that just from watching him with Drusilla.

"Well, we were both a little startled from the having-been-possessed thing," she retorted sharply. "Why are you harping on this?"

"Because—"

"You wanna know what happened?" a deep, familiar voice interrupted from the head of the library, followed by the metallic clink of a lighter striking to life. Buffy's heart stopped and her legs turned to granite. "Simple. We snogged. We fondled. We woke up. The end."

Giles froze. Willow gaped. And cigarette smoke filled the air.

Nerves shaking, mind racing, Buffy turned slowly—very slowly—until her gaze clashed with his.

_Those eyes._

Spike only smiled. It wasn't a kind smile, but that didn't stop her legs from turning to butter or keep her clit from throbbing, especially when his eyes glossed over and dropped to her mouth before raking down the length of her.

When their eyes met again, his were alive with heat.

"Hello, cutie," he said.

And Buffy inhaled sharply.

Oh God. She was in _so much _trouble.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Buffy all but growled as she shoved Spike over the threshold of the first empty classroom she saw. She did her best to ignore the way her fingers tingled from where she'd touched him, just as she did her best to ignore the amused leer on his face; the one that informed her that he was enjoying the manhandling way too much. Noticing the parts of Spike that were less-than-grotesque, especially since he'd literally caught her in the middle of her Spike-made-me-feel-like-a-woman musings, was a definite no-no.

Something told her, from the spark in his eyes, that he wouldn't mind making her feel like a woman right now. Against the wall. Or maybe bent over the teacher's desk. And while the idea had her shivering in all the right places—had her mouth aching for another sinful taste of his—she clamped down forcibly and glared at him.

"Well?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

Spike's brows flickered and a smile itched at his lips. "Well?" he echoed impetuously, indulging in a long puff on his cigarette.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too, kitten."

"You can't do this!"

He blinked innocently. "Do what?"

"Just…come in here and be all in the…here and…dammit, why the hell are you here?"

Spike wasn't paying attention to her. He was staring at her lips.

"Hello?" Buffy waved and rocked on her heels. "Earth to mortal enemy?"

"You have the most gorgeous mouth I've ever seen."

"Well, that…" She frowned, flushed, and shook her head. Her insides flooded with heat and her legs, suddenly, weren't as sturdy as she'd thought. "That is…very nice, but really not the point. The point…" Did she have a point? She was certain that she'd had a point. "That's nice."

Spike domed a brow and grinned at her, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his boot. "You said that already."

"Did I?"

"Yeah." He inhaled and took a step forward, and oh _God, _did he smell good or what? It wasn't fair. Spike was a vampire. He was of the dead. Why was it that he smelled like a walking dish of man candy? "I told myself I wasn't gonna touch you."

Buffy blinked and realized that she was slowly walking backwards. Her back soon collided with the wall. "Oh? Well…it's not like I have…slayer cooties or something. I'm actually quite clean."

_Oh. My. God. _Was there any way she could be a little more pathetic, because that wasn't quite pathetic enough. What the hell was wrong with her? One little possession of star-crossed ghosts and she's all with the schoolgirl crush on _Spike? _There weren't enough ways to spell _disaster _for this. He was _Spike. _Spike as in the guy that tried to kill Angel to save Dru…which, in retrospect, would have saved a lot of lives and some heartache. But then she would have killed Spike for killing Angel and that would have rendered it impossible for him to be here right now. Looking at her like a man fresh off a failed vow of celibacy.

"I shouldn't touch you," he said softly. "You're the Slayer."

"I'm the Slayer," she repeated, nodding, her eyes wide.

He nodded as well, though it was more than obvious that the words hadn't served as the bucket of cold water they'd intended. "I just gotta wonder…"

"What?"

"If you'd taste as good now as you did last night."

And then, in a blink, he was on her, his hard, male body pressing her against the wall. Her breasts flattened against his chest, her arms—raised, of course, to shove him away—somehow wrapped around his neck. The second that his lips touched hers, the floor beneath her feet vanished, as did the wall at her back, and she was lost to an endless sea of pure heavenly delights. The world blinked away. Everything blinked away. Reality stepped aside, and the world was left to Spike. Just Spike. Just Spike and those lips that could thaw any frozen heart. He tasted dangerous, and the more her mind willed her to pull away, the more her body and her mouth clawed at him, refusing to let him go. His tongue belonged in her mouth, wrestling with _her_ tongue. His arms belonged around her waist, holding her against his all-too-male body that her very female body responded to in ways that would surely see her locked up in Rehab for Slayers before this was over. But that didn't matter. None of it mattered. Spike was holding her, exploring her mouth with that sinful tongue of his. His lips formed lyrics as he kissed her, giving her wordless poetry. Filling her veins with more of that delicious femininity that the past few weeks had been sorely lacking.

He kissed her, and she ceased being a girl. He kissed her, and she was a woman.

A woman pressed very intimately against a dangerous, soulless vampire. A woman who was so _not _rubbing herself wantonly against his denim-clad erection.

Spike sighed into her, his teeth lightly scraping against her lips. "You taste divine," he murmured. "Like a slow drink of whiskey."

Buffy trembled. "Whiskey?"

"Oh yeah."

"I taste like alcohol. That's not good."

Spike chuckled. "Would bloody explain why I'm suddenly drunk on you," he mused thoughtfully, nipping at her lips again. "I was wrong, then. Definitely not the ghosts."

Not the ghosts. Buffy didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Ghosts meant that her reaction to him was on a purely supernatural level. It meant that Spike-when-possessed-by-dead-teacher-woman kissed like a god. That would have made things a whole lot simpler.

Spike as Spike, though, didn't kiss like a god.

He kissed like the devil.

He made sinning so delicious, it was a wonder _anyone _wanted to be good.

Spike's eyes twinkled in a way she'd never seen. Granted, the past twenty-four hours had shown her many sides of Spike that she'd never seen. Particularly the side that was all with the not-killing-her and more with the kissing-her-boneless. "Oh trespass sweetly urged," he murmured, those lady-killer lips brushing hers once more. "Give me my sin again…"

Buffy frowned and pulled back before the Lips of Good could tempt her into further distraction. "No. We can't."

He pouted. God, the man had the audacity to pout. "Why not?"

"Why? Why? Need I really go through the laundry list of reasons _why_ this is a bad idea?"

"There's a laundry list?"

"Spike!" Buffy flattened her hands against his chest—_ohh, sturdy_—and shoved him away. "Giles is gonna come in here with a hack-saw in like two minutes if we don't get back before then. You show up on _my _turf after the weirdness that was last night to, what, play tonsil hockey?"

He offered a lazy shrug. "Seemed like the thing to do."

"Why are you here?"

"I woke up with the desire to snog you."

"To _what _me?!"

The smile on his face ought to be illegal. No one should ever look _that _self-confident. "Snog you. See if your mouth was as delicious as I remembered." He licked his lips. "Mmm. You're better when you're not under the influence, love."

Buffy snickered. "Thanks."

There was a long pause.

"So?" Spike asked expectantly.

"So?"

"Back to snogging, then?"

The idea of losing herself in another one of his silken kisses had her eyes a little glossy and her heart doing somersaults. Gah—it wasn't fair that he had such influence over her. For crying out loud, before the stupid school got possessed by equally stupid ghosts, Spike was barely a blip on her radar. An admittedly devastatingly sexy blip, but totally of the blip-nature, nonetheless. What right did he have to stroll in here like he owned the town, kiss her to the point where she could barely remember her name, and then casually ask if they could please continue making out when she had a murderous ex-boyfriend to slay?

A soulless, murderous ex-boyfriend. Angel would never come in here, sans soul, and kiss her like Spike had. He'd rip her throat out.

They were equally soulless, right?

Buffy groaned inwardly. She'd already had this debate. It was easier to think about when the object of her musings wasn't staring her down with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. Or licking his lips and making her envy his tongue.

A few kisses and she'd reverted completely from slayer to schoolgirl. No happy medium. Spike wasn't fighting her, which was weird, but she wasn't fighting him; equally weird.

"You said that you'd told yourself you wouldn't touch me," she reminded him, attempting to step backward as he stepped forward, but going nowhere due to the wall pressed at her back. Walking through walls was not a slayer ability, but for the way Spike was looking at her—hungrily, and not in a blood-lusty way—she was beginning to wish it was.

Namely because the woman in her hadn't felt so excited in weeks.

"I tell myself all kinds of rubbish. None of it ever pans out."

"Why are you here?"

"You gonna keep askin' that?"

"Well, until I get an actual answer that doesn't involve your tongue down my throat."

Spike smirked. "Din't hear you complaining."

"It's _insane._"

"Yeah. That's what makes it so much fun."

Right. Insanity. Fun. Thus described his fascination with screws-for-brains. Buffy rolled her eyes. "Look, I don't have time for this. I have to, you know, stop you and yours from the big evil thing you're planning. And I don't wanna have to stake you here, especially because your lips have this numbing effect on my brain that I probably should've kept to myself because I've just given you an unfair advantage and now it's out there and I just realized that I'm still talking, which is never good, so I'll stop now, and you'll start." She paused, focused on a spot on the floor while trying desperately to ignore how hot her cheeks were. "Okay…so, talking isn't my strong point."

"No, you're doing just fine."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Buffy scowled, raising her eyes to meet his once more. "You're here. And you're with the…non-fighty, _yet again. _And I thought last night you said that you'd try to kill me next time we met."

"Yeah, well, that was last night."

"Ugh…"

"What? A bloke can't change his mind?" Spike held her gaze for another long minute, then sighed and combed his fingers through his hair. "Look, it's not easy for me to be here, all right? When I came to see you last night, it threw me for a bloody loop."

She frowned. "What did?"

"_You _did. I had a plan, an' you had to go bugger it up with your sodding ghosties. An' now I can't get you outta my head, which makes fuck all in sense, but it's the truth." He sighed again. "I want to stop it."

"Then _stop it. _I mean, don't get me wrong…I like kissing you, but it's really beginning to wig me out."

A ghost of a shadow crossed his face at that. "No, love, you're not hearing me. I want to stop Angel."

Everything fell deathly still. Even the dust particles froze. She couldn't have heard him right.

"What?"

"I want to stop Angel." An ironic smile tickled Spike's lips, and just like that, she knew it wasn't a joke. God, it wasn't a joke. He was completely serious.

Only he couldn't be, because the words didn't make sense.

And if those words didn't make sense, then what Spike said next surely meant that doomsday was near.

"I want to save the world."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Her lips needed to stop tingling. Really. It was getting annoying.

Annoying along with the looks that Spike kept shooting her. He was supposed to be talking, dammit. Which, okay, he was doing. He was talking. But he was looking at her. And her lips, being lame and uncooperative, were making with the tinglies and aching for his.

It was not fair that he could kiss like that. Not fair in the slightest.

"Allow me to…interject…" Giles said. His glasses were in a perpetual polishing session in the hem of his dress-shirt. Perhaps he hoped that Spike would disappear if he couldn't see him clearly. "You're…you're serious?"

Well, that was certainly profound. Her shoulders slumped and she breathed a relieved sigh that Willow had skipped out while she had discussed things with her vampire in the spare classroom. The redhead's affinity for after-school activities had drawn her away, thankfully leaving them with only one pair of disbelieving eyes. One pair of eyes was proving to be difficult enough.

And Spike wasn't making things any easier. Asshole.

"Serious?" repeated the vampire in question, arching a brow in a way that made her tingle for all the wrong reasons. "As a bleeding heart attack, mate."

"You really wish to…"

Spike's brows perked. "Save the world? Yeah."

"Oh."

"I could write it down for you if that'd help clear out any ambiguity." He huffed and shook his head, his eyes meeting hers again. An electric shock shot down her spine. "He always like this?"

Buffy forced a dry smile to her still-tingling lips. It was hard to make with the talking when all she wanted to do was suck his face until he forgot his name. "He's just not used to bad guys waving white flags."

He grinned, and it was too sexy for words. "I'm not one for rules, love."

The look on his face spoke for that and then some. No, Spike was many things and none of them had anything to do with abiding the rules. The rules definitely said—underlined, italicized, the full-nine-yards—that fraternization between vampires and slayers was strictly forbidden.

It didn't matter if the vampire in question was the sexiest creature on two legs. It didn't matter if he made her feel female after so many weeks of being hollow inside. Perhaps her reaction to him was a side-effect of being lonely. And perhaps his reaction to her was a side-effect of being abandoned. Buffy didn't harbor any delusions that things between her former boyfriend and Spike's insane lover were chaste. The way the two acted together—the way Angelus spoke when she saw him—she knew that they were making it, and often.

That would certainly explain Spike's reaction to _her. _He'd been deserted just as sure as she had. He was starved for touch as well.

In the end, it likely had little to do with _her. _She was just the owner of the lips his enjoyed kissing in the absence of Drusilla.

"D-do you know what they're plotting?" Giles asked, glasses still in full-polish mode. "If the end of the world is Angel's intention—"

"Not Angel," Spike corrected, his eyes narrowing. "The git's name is Angelus."

Giles frowned. "I…I beg your pardon?"

There was a long, quiet moment. The vampire shrugged. "S'pose it doesn't matter in the end, right?" he replied. "The wanker has the same face. Same walk. Same talk. Jus' minus one soul, yeh? Jus' got his confidence back." He broke off then, laughing without humor. "Angelus is the prat that got a soul shoved up his righteous arse a good century ago. The beast that your slayer awakened by partin' her dimpled knees."

Buffy's innards flushed with cold, a well-aimed barb striking her chest. She found herself swallowed in confusion; she didn't know whether to be angry or hurt.

Thankfully, Giles took care of her dilemma for her. In a blink, he'd paraded across the library floor and popped Spike in the eye. The move was so thoroughly uncharacteristic on part of her Watcher that Buffy could do little more than stand numbly to the side, watching in disbelief as Spike sailed ineloquently to the ground.

"You filthy little wanker!" Giles spat. "How _dare _you speak to her that way?"

Spike recovered quickly enough, rolling to his feet, his eyes flashing. "Speak what way? The truth, maybe? It's what brought Angelus back, innit? It's why that prat's fucking Dru sideways while I'm here in the sodding belly of the _sodding _beat, chattin' up the Slayer an' her mates like we're old chums. You think I want to be here? You think I want to be…" He paused, his gaze flickering to hers. And perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she saw some of the fire die.

No, check that. It _had _to be her imagination. Just as the shaking of her legs and the ache in her heart.

"You're the one who came to me," she said softly, rubbing her arms. "Remember?"

"Pet—"

"You came _here. _No one forced you. No one held a stake to your heart." Her brows perked and she surged with a forced sense of confidence. "You came to me for help."

Spike nodded somberly. "That's right."

"And then…" _And then he'd kissed her and taken her to the stars. _"And then—"

"Look—"

"I'm just saying, if you don't wanna be here, then there's the door."

"I _don't _wanna be here," he retorted. "No more than you want me here. Can't say I fancy keepin' company with a lot that would just as soon see me dust as anything else. An' you'd trade me over for a kiss from your boy in a blink, so don't bloody look at me like I've squashed your dainty feelings, Slayer. You want Angel back, I want Dru. Simple as all that."

Buffy froze, rubbing her arms again. A short twenty-four hours ago, and she would have agreed with him. She would have given anything to see her boyfriend's face. To feel his hands on her skin and his whispers in her hair. To hear him tell her that everything would be all right—that the dark was over and he was with her now.

But a day had passed. The night had come, and the sun had risen.

Spike had walked into the library. Spike had come to her. Spike had done what no vampire would ever do.

"Angel's a killer," she said softly.

"Yeah," Spike agreed, arching that perfect brow again. "An' he was before, too."

She knew that. She'd known that the second that he'd flashed his fangs in her bedroom after they'd shared their first kiss. She'd known when they tentatively started dating, just as she'd known it the night she'd foolishly agreed to share his bed. He'd taken her virginity as a killer, and he'd awoken as one as well.

Only now he'd killed people that she knew. The deaths were no longer a part of the past. They were no longer faceless names in a history book. They were people like Jenny Calendar. People like her classmates. Girls and boys and teachers. He was eating away at her reality now; the book had come to life. The names had become faces. The faces were people she knew. People she had once seen every day. People that she'd cared for.

A long sigh whispered through her lips. "He's a killer," she reiterated, stronger now. "And I…look, you say they're going to end the world?"

Spike shrugged lazily, though there was something in his eyes that hadn't been there a minute ago. "They're planning on it," he replied flippantly. "Angelus has gotten some bloody large aspirations. Seems bein' shoved inside a soul tends to make one lose his marbles."

"Imagine that," Giles said dryly.

"He's plotting something on the world-ending stage. I'd stake my smokes on it."

"Yes," the Watcher replied. "And your word's as good as grit."

Spike shot him a narrow glance. "Did you miss the 'stake my smokes' part?"

"You insolent little—"

Buffy grumbled and held up a hand, quickly putting herself between her Watcher and the insolent vampire in question. One thing was certain; they weren't getting anywhere like this. And despite Spike's rather abrasive manner of getting his point across, he had the added benefit of being right.

Angel—or Angelus—was crazy enough to end the world. Spike wouldn't be here if he didn't think so.

He wasn't here for her after all.

_Better this way, _she told herself, swallowing hard. _Vampires and slayers?_ _Very nonmixy. I could write the book on how nonmixy they are._

"Giles," she said softly. "If…if Angel's planning something, we need to be ready. And we're going to need all the help we can get." She turned to Spike slowly, braving herself to meet his eyes. His too-blue eyes and the devastating way he could see into her without even trying. No one had ever looked at her like that. "_All_ the help we can get."

"We don't need _him. _For God's sake, Buffy, for all we know, he's been sent to throw you off."

Spike frowned at that. "I am _not _a sodding lackey."

"Like we can believe one blessed word you say!"

"If you knew anything about Angelus, you'd know he doesn't send anyone to do what he couldn't do himself."

"Angel likes to torture psychologically. How can we know that gaining Buffy's trust isn't a part of—"

Spike sputtered at that, wide-eyed. "Buffy's _trust?" _he repeated. "Does the Slayer _look _like she trusts me? She doesn't trust me any further than she could…" He paused. "Well, okay, so she could toss me quite a ways, but you get my meaning. An' I say since the girl's the one with the super-powers, she's the one you oughta listen to."

He met her eyes again, and another electric shock raced down her spine.

It was nothing. They had nothing. A few kisses didn't mean loyalty.

He wanted Dru back. And until then, she was his substitute.

The idea left her cold for reasons she couldn't explain, and try as she might, she couldn't shake the feeling aside.

She wanted Spike to want _her_.

God, how screwed up was _that?_

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:**

Thank you SO MUCH to whoever nominated this fic, **Possession**, and **Beloved in Blood** over at the **Lost in Spike Awards**! It really made my weekend! You guys are so good to me.

**Chapter 7**

It didn't take a century of informal people studies to know that he was in the doghouse. Well, as far in the doghouse as he could be with his mortal enemy. And in the end, he supposed it was for the best. This business with the Slayer—snogging her, for instance—had already gone as far as it could. She'd opened his eyes, sure, but there was nothing more to it than that. And while he certainly wouldn't object to sampling what, exactly, had been sweet enough to provide a moment of perfect bliss, his association with Buffy and her chums was going to be short-lived. The second that the world was secure again, he was gone.

Without Drusilla.

That thought was going to take some getting used to. After this was over, he'd be alone for the first time. The very first time. It was for the best—no matter how nerve-wracking the prospect, he knew it was for the best. He'd been far too dependent on a woman that could care two pisses for him for too long. When his mortal enemy poured more feeling into kissing him than the woman he'd been with for over a century, it compromised all hope of fooling himself any longer.

Perhaps he shouldn't have said that he wanted Dru back. It was only a half-truth, after all, and it had done little more than get the Slayer all pissy. Granted, it wasn't like he couldn't understand why. The poor little twit had had her heart stomped on by her wanker of an ex, then Spike had come along and snogged her into the next century. He'd done that and then all but screamed that she wasn't good enough. That abuse from his emotionally detached sire was better than the Slayer's silken kisses.

Didn't matter that nothing could be further from the truth.

Spike snickered, shaking his head with an ironic grin. _A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on,_ he thought, wishing for a cigarette.

It wasn't Buffy's fault that he was a glutton for abuse. That there was a part of him that, no matter what, wanted Dru back. In the end, though, that was only because he didn't know better. The years hadn't shown him any love; Dru wasn't going to provide that. Hell, Buffy had given him more in a few simple kisses than he'd ever gotten from his dark princess. And he deserved more.

He deserved so much more.

Buffy had definitely opened his eyes. Eventually, he'd have to decide if he loved or hated her for the favor.

Right now, all he wanted to do was touch her. Forget what he'd said in the library and chalk it up to cowardly backpedaling at the emotions the Slayer—of all people—had awakened within him. Self-examination could wait; he wanted was her lips on his lips and her body against his body. He wanted her breasts in his hands and her pussy cradling his cock. He wanted all that without worry of what tomorrow would bring.

He wanted _Buffy. _

_I'm sick. _

That might be, but it didn't change a thing. He wanted her like he'd never wanted another woman in his life. The knowledge was terrifying but relentless. He wanted Buffy. God help him, he wanted her so much.

"Slayer—"

"You really don't need to follow me home," she said, not once breaking stride or even bothering to toss him a glance over her shoulder. Her blonde ponytail flopped enthusiastically against her back with every strident step, enchanting him to the point of pure absurdity. He needed a shag, and bad. "I know the way, Spike. It's why it's called _home." _

"Buffy, I din't mean—"

"I don't care what you meant."

Her tone told him otherwise, and colorfully. Women who truly didn't care never sounded so hurt. He knew. He'd spent a century with a woman that _didn't care. _

He'd also spent a century not listening when people told him to shut up. "I didn't mean it," he said again.

Buffy grumbled and batted a hand dismissively. "Hello? Were you not here two seconds ago? I said I _don't care._ I don't give an honest crap about _anything_ you say, much less what you mean by it."

"Slayer—"

"I don't _care_ if you want your crazy hoe-bag back. It's none of my business."

Spike arched a brow. "Thought you din't know what I was talking about."

"Shut up."

"The subject's a li'l touchy for me, all right? It's not like I enjoy advertising that the woman I've been with ever since I crawled from the grave could give two pisses about me." Her paces slowed then, and Spike exhaled softly, casting a hand through his platinum locks. "She used to pretend, at least," he continued. "An' I could fool myself then. She doesn't pretend anymore."

Buffy stopped completely and waited until he caught up with her, her eyes bright and vulnerable. The shattered confusion across her face was enough to make any bloke fall to his knees, thus Spike was pleased when he managed to meet her gaze with somber dignity.

She was as lost as he was. And he could appreciate that.

"Look," she said after a long minute. "I don't…I don't know. Yesterday—before the ghostly possession made with the smoochies and the touchies and…everything made sense."

"I know what you mean."

A dry laugh scratched at her throat. "Good, 'cause I don't. Everything made sense in a way that was _completely_ senseless, but at least I knew where it was going." She licked her lips. "Now you're all here with the distracty and the Lips of Good, I can admit some things. Like when you said that I'd run back to Angel…God, I'm so afraid that that's true. That if he came back, I'd just forgive and forget, even after all he's done." A shiver ran through her, and she crossed her arms. "Throw in the monkey-wrench—that being you—and I'm so confused right now that…well, I can't come up with a good analogy, but I'm just _that_ confused."

Spike had wandered off at some point. Probably around _Lips of Good. _

"This is crazy," she said, shaking her head. "We're crazy."

"I've been around crazy most of my unlife," he retorted, smiling softly. "Never felt like this before."

"You hate me."

"I'm willing to overlook that for now." It was another half-truth. Something about tasting the girl's succulent mouth had gone to his head. The whole _feeling_ thing was a little intoxicating. Buffy had him under her spell whether she liked it or not. "I like snogging you."

She made a face. "Snog just sounds wrong."

"You're the ones that butchered the bloody language. Don't go criticizing our slang when you have terms like _bling-bling_ floatin' around out there."

"Spike—"

"I know I was a jerk, all right? I'm evil. That's how the game is played."

Buffy rolled her eyes, her face hardening once more. And before he could even consider recanting whatever offense he'd laid out, she'd pivoted sharply on her heel and resumed her brisk pace down the sidewalk. "How many times do I have to say it to get it through your thick head?" she snapped. "I. Don't. Care. I don't care."

Spike sighed. _One step forward…_

"You tryin' to convince yourself or me, Slayer?" he retorted, arching a cool brow. "You change your tune so often, it's no bloody wonder your chums have a hard go of keeping track."

"Shut up."

Another long sigh peeled off his lips. "Buffy, we should talk—"

"I've already discussed the impending and oh-so-ambiguous apocalypse as much as I care to, thanks."

It took all he had to bite back a growl. She had to be the most stubborn bint he'd ever laid eyes on. "That's not what I meant, an' you bloody well know it, you frustrating cock-tease."

She stopped walking so abruptly that he nearly ploughed into her back. Not that he would have minded that, per se. Feeling any part of the Slayer's taut, scrumptious little body against him would be the closest thing to bliss that he'd felt in a long while. But he didn't plough into her back—Buffy whirled around the next second, and again, he felt himself drowning in the liquid heat of her eyes. "What the _hell_ did you just call me?"

He didn't bother repeating it. His nose was unblemished for the moment, and from the way her right hand was twitching, he figured it was wise to not press his luck. "Got you to turn around, din't it?"

The fire in her eyes was about the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. She was trembling with a mixture of anger and arousal, and the way her lips moved made the urge to cover every inch of her with his mouth harder and harder to ignore.

God, the thought alone nearly undid him.

"You—"

"You're making excuses," he snapped, giving himself a good mental shake. "Deny it all you want, love, but there's something happening between us, an' try as you might, ignoring it's not gonna make it go away."

"What happened between us was ghostly possession."

"Yeah," Spike agreed slowly. "Last night. What happened in the classroom was you an' me, baby."

"You were the one that made with the lungy!"

"An' I s'pose all that panting an' moaning was your version of protecting your virtue?"

"There was _no_ panting and moaning, you twisted perv!"

"If I hadn't brought up Dru back there, you'd be putty in my hands." Spike's hungry eyes swallowed her as her nostrils flared with anger and her body tightened in that delicious way that only a slayer's could. "An' as it is, I din't mean it. Not all of it, anyway. So just accept my apology so we can get back to snogging, yeah?"

Buffy blinked at him incredulously. Then she huffed and shook her head. "You're a pig," she said, turning quickly to give him yet another scrumptious view of her biteable arse. "And I'm going home."

"Buffy—"

"Just go home, Spike. There's nothing to discuss."

He rolled his eyes. _Women. _"I don't _have_ a sodding home to go to. If Dru hasn't gone batty with another vision that spills all the glorious details of my turnin' traitor on Angelus's massive waste of forehead, I'm _still_ gonna have to watch your ex fuck her into the ground. An' between the two of us, I'd rather skip that show an' get back to exploring how good you taste when you're less of a bitch."

She scoffed. "Yeah. That's happening."

"Slayer—"

"We had two flukes. That's it. No more. No less. There's nothing between us, Spike. Nothing but a bizarre-o pact to save the world and seething hatred. Nothing."

The bint had submerged so far into denial that she was beginning to sound like she'd convinced herself of that. Why oh _why_ had he gone off his rocker and mentioned Dru? His mind was swimming in Buffy, and thanks to his big mouth, he wasn't going to be welcomed to that dive he'd so looked forward to all day.

Only Spike wasn't one to take defeat easily, especially over something so stupid. It was hard to admit that he wanted something different after a century of having his eyes set on one thing, but he was determined to show her that saving the world was just a perk to tasting her sweet mouth. That, when all was said and done, _Buffy_ was the one that had changed his tune. Kissing _Buffy_ had changed everything. _Everything. _

She would know it, dammit. If he had to beat it into her thick skull, she would know it tonight.

Right now.

With a growl, Spike seized her arm and whirled her around so fast that she didn't have time to protest before his mouth came crashing down on hers. And as before, he immediately found himself lost in her rich taste. His audacity was rewarded with a sensual, cock-stirring moan rather than a slap. God, she could drive a sane man mad with the noises she made. And just like that, whatever hint of a fight that Buffy had pretended to put up instantly dissolved. Her arms wound around his neck, her lips parting to welcome his tongue, her own pushing into his mouth and near licking a soul _into_ his willing body. The warm heat of her pussy cradled his cock and her scent teased his nostrils. She was magnificent. She was divine. She was perfection. She was _effulgent. _

And he was lost in her.

"Tell me now," he growled, nipping at her lips, his hands tugging at her ponytail until her hair was free and cascading over his fingers like water. "Tell me _now_ that there's nothing between us."

Fight had abandoned her eyes. "Guh," she replied drunkenly.

Spike grinned, his head dipping to nibble on her earlobe. "'S what I thought," he purred, his mouth skating slowly to tease the creamy skin of her throat. "You taste like raspberries."

"Ohhh…" Buffy wove a hand through his hair, gasping and bucking her hips against him with wild abandon that did little more than drive him crazy. "It's…my body-wash."

"I love it."

His tongue lapped eagerly at the pulse-point of her throat, a low moan rumbling through his chest. Slayer blood pumped through her glorious body. She was an elixir, and as one of the only vamps that could brag as to having spilt the blood of two, he knew that her taste would redefine _delectable. _

"I'll buy more," she promised, her mouth sucking at his earlobe.

Spike's eyes rolled up. It wasn't too difficult to imagine her sucking on something else. Something hard and aching for her touch.

"You smell like honey," he growled, licking at her vein again.

His fangs itched. He wanted to sink his teeth into her so badly.

But not for the kill. No. This was different. This was so different. And that knowledge shook him to the core.

He didn't want to kill her. He didn't want his fangs stained with red and her body crumpled at his feet. No; he wanted to bite her in pleasure. He wanted to bite her when he was balls-deep in her pussy with her tight, velvet warmth strangling his cock. He wanted to see euphoria wash across her face. He wanted her hand coaxing him to her neck. He wanted her permission—her encouragement—her _pleading_ before he sank his fangs into her milky flesh.

"I smell like honey?" she repeated, her voice light with mirth. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her mouth releasing his ear just long enough to nip at his throat. And _Christ,_ if she hadn't been walking a fine line before, she was practically sprinting down one now. "And I taste like raspberries. Do I look like a turkey drumstick?"

Spike chuckled. "Hardly, love."

"You and your food analogies."

"'S not my fault if everything about you is _delicious." _To accentuate his point, he nipped at her throat, then kicked himself immediately when she tensed in his arms. "Not gonna bite you," he promised hurriedly, kissing her cheek quickly before seizing her lips again. "Not gonna bite you. Want you _alive_ an' wiggling. You have my word on that."

Buffy just looked at him. He could practically see the wheels in her head pulling on the emergency brake and heading for the ever-dreaded backtrack in a way that would put most politicians to shame.

"Sweetheart—"

"No. No, it's okay." She sighed heavily and shook her head. Her words didn't inspire much encouragement, especially when she robbed him of her warmth by slipping out of his arms the next second. "It's…I know you wouldn't. Well, no, I don't. I _think_ you wouldn't, and I know that _you_ think you wouldn't. Right now."

Spike's shoulders slumped.

_Wanker. _

"But we shouldn't—it's…" Buffy licked her lips and shivered. He knew she could taste him there, and despite his best efforts, that hint of how much they mutually enjoyed snogging each other wasn't incentive enough to send her leaping back into his all-too-willing embrace. "I'd love to get caught up in this," she said at last, sighing again and running a hand through her newly-tussled hair. "In you…and the nummy goodness of kissing you."

Spike's plans went far beyond kissing, but he didn't dare say that now. "I don't really see the problem, pet," he replied softly. "'S not like we owe it to anyone."

"I know."

"Point of fact—"

"I can't. We can't." Buffy stopped short, her eyes falling shut in frustration. "I mean we shouldn't. Look, something happened…yeah…with the ghosts. But that doesn't mean—"

"So you're makin' excuses _now?" _

"You said back there that you want Dru back."

If Spike could go back in time, he'd be sure to stake himself before those infernal words could breathe life. "Sod what I said back there!" he snarled, gesturing emphatically at the empty road behind them. "I want _you,_ love. I want you so bad I'm gonna bust a nut if I can't touch you. Is it crazy? Yes. I know it. I know it as well as you, but knowing it doesn't make my wanting you go away."

Buffy's eyes darkened as the fight returned to her. Better, then. He much preferred her fighting rather than calm and rational. Made him feel less like a ranting, sex-crazed lunatic. "You want me 'cause you can't have Dru," she said slowly, her tone dangerous. "You want me 'cause I'm…I don't know. But you wouldn't be here with me if Dru wasn't playing cowgirl with Angel."

He bit back a flinch. "You can't know that."

"Yes, I can. And hey—what's more, I do." Buffy glared at him for a few well-deserved seconds, her luscious breasts heaving as she panted with exertion. Then, slowly, the fire in her gaze softened again, and the calm was back. "Look…there's nothing…we're both very lonely right now. I can't imagine how…how hard it must be for you. I mean, I had the wiggins just seeing Cordy _flirt_ with Angel before he went all soul-crazy. I know how long you and…I know. And having to watch it can't be a whole lot of fun. But I'm too broken right now to be used because you're lonely. Or to use anyone else because _I'm_ lonely. It's not gonna help matters, Spike. Not in the end."

A cool silence settled between them. A cool, haunted silence.

Buffy didn't want to be used. And she didn't want to use him.

A woman, for the first time in his life, didn't want to use him.

And that golden knowledge tossed him over. Standing there, on the street corner, looking into her gorgeous emerald eyes, he wanted her more than ever.

But more than that, he wanted her to want him as well. Beyond the pain and the hurt. Beyond Dru and Angelus, and their sodding mind games. Beyond the impending apocalypse. He wanted Buffy to want _him. _

_Him_ as in Spike. _Him_ as in a vampire. _Him_ as in her self-proclaimed executioner.

He wanted Buffy to want _him. _

God, how buggered was _that? _

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

It was by the virtue of a gabby lackey that Spike discovered Angelus had decided to end the world by means of some demon from the stone-age. A demon that had met the business end of a knight's sword. Ever since his post-Buffy-snogging encounter with the great sod and the former light of his evil life, Angelus and Dru had done little to include him in their plans. That much didn't unravel him—he knew he didn't have their trust. He'd _never_ had Angelus's trust. Granted, trust wasn't something that Angelus handed out by the barrel. Not even Darla had earned that privilege, but after so much time, Spike would expect at _least _a smidgeon of respect.

And Dru? Well, Dru had made her feelings about him perfectly clear.

The only thing Spike couldn't fully explain was the lightness in his heart. All things considered, he should be absolutely miserable. The woman he loved had betrayed him—physically, emotionally, and all of the above. Furthermore, Drusilla's betrayal had forced him into a corner—one that he knew he should resent with every fiber of his being. He was walking through the darkened halls of Sunnydale High, running slightly late for the Scooby meeting Buffy had asked him to attend the night before.

_Buffy._

She was _Buffy _to him.

That thought was rather frightening, but it did little to dampen his good mood.

Buffy had him in a good mood. The same scrawny little chit who had done nothing but muck up his plans from the second he barreled over the Welcome to Sunnydale sign. The bloody thorn in his side. The bane of his existence. The one that he'd sworn to kill. He'd come here to drink her blood. To mark her as his third all the while restoring his black princess to her former dark glory.

And the thought of seeing her now had him inexplicably happy. It made bugger all sense to him, but happiness was something that had been sorely lacking in his life in recent months. He knew basking in happiness provided by his mortal enemy couldn't lead to anything good, and while there was a very large part of him that was thoroughly disgusted with himself, he similarly knew not to sneeze on whatever good fortune came his way. He'd admitted his attraction to Buffy seconds after first setting eyes on her; just as he'd vowed to have her throat torn open and her blood in his mouth. Now that they had a tentative understanding, the male in him couldn't help but soak her up for the warm, luscious female that she was.

The fact that she was the owner of the pussy his cock desperately wanted to sink into didn't hurt, either. And while she'd put a cap on his intentions to cart her to the nearest bed, the way she reacted to him had him confident she wouldn't be able to ignore his advances for long.

Her scent flooded in his nostrils. He hadn't wanted to wash her arousal off his skin, so he'd parked in one of Sunnydale's motels and tended to his aching cock.

Buffy had certainly done her share to fuel his fantasies for the night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face. Every time he inhaled, he drowned in her flavor. He felt her breasts in his hands and the hum of her pulse against his mouth. At times, the fantasy became so intense—so _real—_that he was surprised when he opened his eyes and found he was still alone. That there wasn't a warm and achingly female human beside him.

It was going to be hard maintaining composure when all he wanted to do was escort her to the nearest private area and shag her until she was no longer interesting. Until he was bored enough with her that he could off her good and proper. And bugger all if the thought of her dead didn't make him ache. That needed fixing—the sodding soft-spot for the Slayer. It was one thing to crave her quim; caring for _her _was something completely different.

All in all, Spike knew what he needed to do. He needed to fuck her so he could get back to the place where the idea of her broken, bleeding body inspired joy rather than outrage. He comforted his torn psyche by asserting that he'd be able to kill the chit and move on once his lusting after slayer-pussy came to an end, no matter how unappealing the notion was currently. For whatever reason, his heart and hands were tied behind his back. He wouldn't be ready to kill her until he'd fucked her.

And until then, he'd have to accept that he wasn't ready to kill her. He didn't _want _to kill her; he could only hope that fucking her would rekindle the oath he made to himself; that he would be able to spill her blood without regret, then move on.

It was what he told himself, anyway. Didn't matter that every time his eyes landed on the sorry chit, his gut clenched and his heart warmed.

That would go away with time.

He hoped.

Trouble was, he'd never felt anything like it before, so he honestly couldn't say whether the feeling would go away or not.

And if he was _really _honest with himself, he wasn't sure he wanted it to.

Wasn't _that _a kick in the balls?

Spike shook his head hard. If he started down this road, there was no way he was going to be able to focus long enough to tell the Slayer and her chums what he'd discovered. He sighed, stuffed his hands inside his duster pockets, and barreled through the library doors before he could talk himself out of it.

Buffy was sitting cross-legged on the front table with a book settled in her lap and her chin resting in her palm, tendrils of fallen hair hiding her eyes from him. And even though she was a good seven yards away, he could feel the exhilarated rush in her pulse. She was thriving on adrenaline, and judging by the sweet smell she exuded, she'd just gotten through a hefty training session.

The idea of Buffy in her element killed his resolve to remain professional. His cock stirred and his fangs itched. She was glorious when she fought.

Even if all she had to fight was a padded-up watcher or a worn-down punching bag.

It was a decidedly juvenile, male voice that interrupted his exceedingly distracting thoughts. And from the distinctly _unmanly_ shrill, he couldn't tell whether or not the distraction was a godsend.

"Spike!"

Spike blinked and turned. Oh. Right. The Slayer's friends. Seemed the whole merry lot was present. The redhead. The over-bearing boy and his cheerleader girlfriend. The werewolf. And, of course, the Watcher. The bloke responsible for nearly giving him a black-eye. They were all staring at him dumbly, as though he hadn't popped by the previous day and already gone through this time-wasting mess of explaining his motives.

Granted, only the Watcher and the redhead had been there to see it, but a bloke would think that news would travel…especially since this lot fancied themselves a crime-fighting force to be reckoned with. Demons of Sunnydale beware, and all that.

"'Lo all," he said, waving dismissively before turning back to the Slayer. She looked like something had bitten her; she was pale and wide-eyed, and too gorgeous for words. Were it not for their rather attentive audience, he'd be seeing about bringing that rosy blush he loved so much out to play.

"Spike," she said. "I…oh…"

"Forget I was coming, love?

"No. I just…"

It took very little to pull the breaks on his good mood. Something wasn't right. Buffy was _too _pale. Too dazed. And while he'd love to entertain thoughts that she was shaken by the very sight of him, he was too jaded to allow his ego the stroke, however needed.

"Got news," he said, eyes narrowing. "'Bout Angelus."

"So do we!" the redhead chimed in, raising her hand like an attentive student. "We found the curse!"

"The curse…" Spike froze, his world crashing. "The curse. The sodding _curse. _You found it?"

"Buffy found it."

Buffy couldn't look at him. She was suddenly very much interested in the book in her lap.

"In Ms. Calendar's desk," the overgrown boy with the girl-voice tossed in. "You know? The teacher you murdered?"

Spike's eyes flared angrily. "Don't go pinning that one on me."

"Like it matters. Point is, we have a plan, and you're not needed anymore."

That much was enough to snap the Slayer out of whatever inner pity-party she was attending. Buffy's head shot up so fast it'd be a sodding miracle if she didn't have whiplash come morning. And in an instant, she'd bounded to her feet. "Wait," she said shortly. "We never decided that we couldn't use Spike."

The word hit him like holy water.

_Use._

"Use me?" he repeated, disgusted. With her. With himself. With the notion that he could ever be anything more to her—that the night's promise could actually be kept. God, he was such a git. Such a bloody _useful _git. "Well, Slayer…fancy that."

She burned him with a look. "Don't start."

"Don't start? I walk in here with news about what your lover-boy is plannin' an' get the bloody third degree from some wanker who's still tryin' to grow outta his Pampers." Spike shook his head in disgust. "An' you—"

"I haven't decided anything!" Buffy snapped. "So don't _start, _Spike! Not you, too. I swear, I can't…" She wandered off, chopping the sentence short with an abrupt jerk of the head, wiping her eyes before anyone could get another glimpse of slayer vulnerability.

It was enough. It gave him enough. She was reeling, and it was the fire in her eyes that lent him pause. Something was off; very off. She looked, on closer inspection, like a woman at the edge of a very steep cliff, waiting for the slightest sign to send her over. And it occurred to him that he'd just walked blind into something very personal.

Something that had nothing to do with Angelus at all, and everything to do with Buffy and her relationship with vampires. Any vampire.

And right now, Spike was the perfect target.

It didn't take much to put that together. As it was, Angelus had delighted in telling stories about the large git—Xander, his name was—and how the boy lusted after the Slayer with no thought to discretion or tact. And despite the arm-candy at his side, Spike would bet his smokes against the odds that Boy Wonder had thought to sneak his way into the Slayer's knickers in the fallout. After all, he'd been proven right about vampires, and the Slayer would need some comfort in the difficult days following her first great love's death.

What a sodding waste. As though a fumbling teenager of a human would ever be enough for Buffy.

"Y-yes, quite," Giles concluded, his glasses falling into a waiting handkerchief. Spike briefly entertained the idea that the old man had been spurned into the world with a bloody square of cotton sewed to his palm. The Watcher was well engaged in a polish session before he continued his thought. "What news do you bring us?" he asked.

Spike paused, his eyes drifting back to Buffy. She'd reinstated her campaign to avoid eye-contact, standing now with her arms crossed, her weight shifting from one leg to the other. "Acathla," he said shortly.

Giles paled. "Acathla?"

"A-what-a?" Buffy echoed, her head darting upward briefly. Electricity flared between them when their eyes met, but the contact was so brief he barely had time to enjoy it before she was again paying attention to every nook and cranny in the library except for him. Which made it interesting, seeing as she intended to continue the conversation. "What's an…whatever you said?"

"Nasty bugger, pet."

"Acathla is a demon from ancient antiquity. The Watchers Council actually thought him to be a fabrication until sixty years or so ago, when more modern records of his existence were uncovered with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls." Giles shook his head incredulously. "Oh dear."

Spike nodded. "Now some museum has hold of it. Here in ole Sunnyhell. It was all over the mornin' paper."

Xander blinked, not even bothering to mask his surprise. "You read the paper?"

The question wasn't deserving of an answer; a point made well when Spike refused to even toss the wanker a glance. "But if your lot thinks reensouling the Great Poof is the way to go, best of luck to you." His eyes landed on Buffy again, agitation swelling in his chest. He didn't want to feel for the chit, but the lost look on her face was enough to melt the hardest of facades. It had to be hard for her; admittedly, he knew the tennis game the Powers were playing with her heart would eventually cause her to completely crash. Right now, she didn't need him around making things even more confusing for her.

Granted, why he should give a bloody damn was beyond him. The girl had her tongue down his throat just last night, and with a little coaxing, he knew that he could have convinced her to part her legs and take his cock into her small, perfect body. If she was now tossed up because her beloved _one and only _had another undeserved shot at redemption, he had every reason to be brassed. She hadn't fought his advances. Fuck, turning away from her last night had been the hardest thing he'd ever done—forcing his ears to listen to her whispers of _no _all the while her skin hummed and the throb of her pulse told him _yes. _

"I saw Acathla this morning," Giles said softly. "The curator of the museum in question wanted my opinion."

"And what did you tell him?" the redhead demanded, her voice an octave away from summoning every dog in town. It was a wonder her mutt of a boyfriend could tolerate anything that piercing.

"'Oh dear, oh dear,' were my exact words, I believe."

The cheerleader's brown eyes widened. "Did anyone order a mass panic?"

"Acathla's missing now," the Watcher concluded.

Xander wasted no time in pointing an accusatory finger at the vampire, his body trembling with disdain. "You!"

Spike's hands came up. "Oi!"

"Y-you came here to lure her into a trap!"

"How you figure? By the way I've compromised Angelus's master plan?" He rolled his eyes. "Bugger this. I'm out."

His back was already on Buffy by the time she snapped out of whatever inner debate she was entertaining. And though lead filled his boots, he refused to stop walking. Even when she called out after him. Even when she begged him to stop.

The world had already robbed him of too many things. If she thought she could have his pride on top of it all, she was in for a rude awakening.

* * *

The one thing Spike didn't count on was Buffy running after him. That took moxy he didn't think she had. To maul him with her lips in an abandoned classroom was one thing; to leave her chums and her Watcher, calling his name like he meant something to her…that was something else altogether.

It didn't mean anything, of course. The Slayer's chance had come and gone. He was through playing the perpetual whipping boy. Let her try to stop the apocalypse without him. Fuck, let her plunge Angel's soul back up the git's righteous ass—it didn't matter to him. The way Angel and the Slayer had been going at it before her cherry was popped, they'd be fortunate to get a week together before Angelus reared his ugly head again.

Might be better if he told her to bugger off once and for all. And with that thought in mind, Spike whirled around angrily, only to find himself suddenly holding an armful of Buffy, her hands on his cheeks as her mouth ravaged his. Immediately, his cock sprang to life and his anger placated. There really was no remedy for outrage like a warm Slayer tongue caressing his, her legs parting just slightly to allow his denim-clad erection solace between her heavenly thighs.

"I don't know what to do," she babbled between kisses. Her body was burning up and her eyes had pooled with tears. Her mouth nipped at his flesh with desperation that had him calculating how long it'd take to get somewhere private if he tossed her over his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Spike. I just don't know what to do."

"What—"

"I didn't want…God!" In a blink, she'd torn herself away from his embrace. And the sudden absence of her warmth left him frozen in ways he didn't want to consider. "I didn't mean to find it," she said, every inch of her delectable self trembling with uncertainty he knew well. "It was just there. I was studying with Willow and it was just there. What am I supposed to do? He's…I loved him so much, and I was _so ready _to kill him. I was _so ready. _If I kill him now…knowing that I could…"

She shook her head hard and forced her eyes upward, and the heartache reflected behind her tears was enough to gut the strongest of men. Any hope of escaping this without his heart twice broken died that second. Forget all talk of fucking her as means of getting past his fixation and back to the way God intended it. A man didn't weep for girls who were breaking if he only felt for her with his prick.

How had she turned his world on its hinges in just two bleeding days?

Spike sighed inwardly and cast a hand through his platinum locks. Didn't look like it mattered _how. _He was here now. He was staring at the Slayer, whose eyes were filled with tears she'd cried for someone else. And his heart, predictably, was mush. It hurt like hell, but there was bugger all he could do about it. He wanted Buffy—this he knew—but he wanted her smiling. The pain in her eyes…

_Fuck me._

"Buffy, love…"

"I know…you…" She shivered hard and crossed her arms. "I'm crazy with the mixed signals and everything. I didn't mean to…make with the lungy."

His tingling lips didn't mind. They just missed her warmth.

"I don't know what to do," she concluded, wiping at her eyes with a pitiful sniff. "And you…with the…kissing and the temporary not-being-my-mortal-enemy thing…my head hurts."

Spike just looked at her. His hands were tied. If he stepped forward and caressed her aching head with his lips, he might well earn a punch in the gut. If he stood idly, she might take that as rejection and start again with the waterworks.

The only thing he could offer her was support, and that went against every innate stirring in his evil body. Ergo, the only thing he could offer her was total self-defacement.

Though anything was better than watching her cry.

"Kitten—"

"Kendra."

Spike blinked hard. "No," he said slowly, patting his chest. "Spike."

"No, I mean—" Buffy paused, her eyes narrowing. "Doofus, behind you. Kendra."

It took a few seconds for the words to register. A few seconds that cost him dearly.

The last thing he heard, following the hard and rather underserved kick to the head, was Buffy screaming the Riot Act to the slayer behind him.

And oddly enough, as the world went black, he found that rather comforting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Nightmares haunted every second of sleep. His mind enacted every gut-wrenching scenario a twisted imagination could provide. And each came in the wrapping of a golden fantasy.

He saw Buffy smiling at him. Buffy stripping for him. Buffy lying spread-eagled on his bed, her pussy slick with aching anticipation of his touch. He saw her beckon him forward. Saw her take his hand in hers and guide his fingers to her slippery folds. She moaned and bucked against his hand, played to easy orgasm and drenched his skin with her achingly feminine juices. She looked at him with open, trusting eyes. She looked at him in ways that made him question his existence.

Spike had always known evil things could appreciate beauty; he'd just never found purity beautiful.

And Buffy was pure. Buffy was nothing _but_ pure.

And she wasn't his. As dream faded into nightmare, as Angel strode into the room, there was nothing more singular than that knowledge. Buffy didn't belong to him. She belonged to Angel. To the memory of a soul.

"Thanks for keeping her warm for me," Angel quipped, winking. "Couldn't have done it without you."

That wasn't the kicker, though. The kicker was watching Buffy's face break into blinding illumination. The kicker was watching her scoot over. The kicker was watching her throw her head back in pleasure as Angel's hand found her pussy.

Thankfully, that was where the nightmare ended. That was when he twisted awake, finding again that he was alone in his motel bed. That Buffy's scent lived only on the clothing she'd touched earlier when she'd kissed his lips off. That she wasn't here to taunt him with the incredible wrong turn his feelings for her had taken.

She'd decided to go with the curse. She'd helped him back to the library after talking down the incredibly brassed-off slayer. She'd tended to his bruised head with an icepack, and told her friends she wanted to curse Angel again. Any hint of the girl who had sobbed in his arms was nowhere to be seen. Buffy acted with decisiveness. She wanted Angel back, and she'd said so while standing at Spike's side.

Her argument? It would buy them time. Time to stop Acathla. Time to figure out how to put the apocalypse on pause.

It was just a happy coincidence that the curse would bring her boyfriend back. A two-for-one deal.

Spike moaned and threw his naked legs over the side of the bed, shaking his head hard. He was such a daft git. So bloody hopeless. Get a girl to smile at him, shed a few tears, and he was no more useful than Angel on Viagra. He wanted Buffy, and Buffy wanted someone else.

Story of his life.

The sun would soon fade below the horizon, and then it would be time to move. Spike was exhausted but wide awake, tense and ready for whatever the night brought on. He hadn't been able to sleep—if it wasn't the nightmares, it was worry that she might need him.

_And that, friends, is the punchline. _

Buffy had robbed him of his ability to sleep through the daytime, which did little more than solidify how thoroughly buggered he was. He was a demon; he was supposed to enjoy reaping havoc while the sky was dark and sleep when the sun was up. He was supposed to be out there planning an apocalypse of his own. He was supposed to not give a bleeding fuck if Buffy wanted to shag Angel until she rotted, or how many souls she stuffed up the git's righteous arse. He was supposed to be different.

He was supposed to be so many things. Right now, the thing he focused on was the fact that he was a nocturnal creature, and he was turning arse over tit to change his habits for a girl who was probably dreaming of getting fucked sideways by another vamp.

A girl who would never dream of him.

Spike padded miserably to the bathroom sink, glaring into the mirror that refused to glare back. When had life become so sodding complicated? His plan had been simple enough. Go to the school. Talk to the Slayer. Get her to concoct a brilliant plan that involved Dru begging him to take her back as well as Angelus's dusty downfall. But that hadn't happened.

Buggering ghosts. The ghosts had turned his head and given his cock another pussy to crave. Crave beyond a fleeting fantasy—crave as he'd craved no woman before her. Before _Buffy._ And if that wasn't humiliating enough, his heart, oh so predictably, had followed suit.

He was always falling for women who were infatuated with Angelus.

Perhaps he truly was a masochist.

"My Spike flies so far away from the other children."

His eyes widened in shock, his feet twisting until he found himself staring at his maker. The motel door was wide open, and there she stood. Dru. Distant. Haunting. She held herself like a true aristocrat. Her hands were hidden behind her back, her hair pulled away from her face. She was dressed all in black.

Of course she was. The white gowns had vanished once her power was restored. The white had fooled him, played to his softer side. Made him believe that the sickly girl he saw—the one who pretended to love him to get what she wanted—could ever carry over in the rebirth of what no angry mob could destroy.

Drusilla had walked right into his motel. His neutral ground. The place he stayed that belonged neither to Angelus nor the Slayer. And she'd done so without triggering any of his senses. He hadn't even smelled her.

Odd as it was, Spike was hardly surprised. If Dru didn't want to be felt, she had ways to avoid it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled, his unthinking feet carrying him to her. "An' haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"I just came to see if the stars were lying to me."

"Bloody hell, Dru, we already had this argument. I'm lost, remember?" He waved his hand a little. "I wanna play in sunshine? I've tasted honey an' I want more? Any of this ringing any bells?"

"Only dirty boys play in the sunlight, my sweet."

He rolled his eyes. "No need to tell me that. Why don't you bugger the fuck off an' head back to your cozy li'l apocalypse, yeah? You an' Grandpap made it perfectly clear that you wanted me nowhere near the precious ceremony. An' near as I can recall, I din't invite you to keep tabs."

"Mummy looks after all her babies," Drusilla replied coyly, taking a step forward. "You were always my favorite baby, Spike."

"But nothin' more than that. Trust me, got that message loud an' clear."

"Daddy worries you'll ruin everything."

Daddy ought to be more worried about the amateur witch that was brewing up a cup of soul, or at least looking at the recipe. But Spike didn't say that. He wouldn't betray Buffy. The last time any from her lot had tried to reensoul the wanker, a teacher lost her life. Not that Spike particularly cared if one or all of the little Scoobies had their innards ripped out; he just knew what it would do to Buffy if she lost someone else. If conjuring a curse meant sacrificing a friend.

He wouldn't betray Buffy. Not now.

_Look what she's turned you into. _

Not even thoughts like that could persuade him.

"If _Daddy_ figured me for anything of a threat, he'd be here himself to deliver the message," Spike retorted dryly, arching a brow. "You're jus' here to keep me in the ranks. Make sure when the mojo starts later that I'm still standin' on your side."

Drusilla's lower lip poked out in a way that, once upon a time, would have had him weak in the knees. Not now. Seeing her now only incited irritation. "My puppy feels mistreated?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. For starters, _not_ a sodding puppy."

"Such a sad day it is for you, William."

"You have no bloody idea."

"You're going to help the nightingale, aren't you?" She took a step forward, her eyes now blazing with accusation. "You think she sings her song for you. She doesn't, you know. She likes the way you feed and coddle her, and she will give you a treat in the end. But her song isn't yours."

Spike flinched inwardly, but he refused to let Dru see how deep the words cut. It wasn't anything she hadn't said before. Point of fact, the very first night she'd fed him the same speech. About how Buffy didn't want him and all that rot. And while repetition didn't make the hurt vanish, it did steal some of the punch.

"Still, she had the decency to tell me that before I got involved," he countered. "Go home, Dru. You're wasting your time with me."

"I don't think so, my darling." She bit her lip coquettishly and her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Acathla awakes tonight. And you're not going to ruin the surprise party."

It was only then her arms dropped and the sword came into view. A sword. An honest-to-god _sword._ Spike barely had time to blink at it before the blade cut across his neck. Paralyzed shock hardened his body; he gasped his maker's name and reached for the wound out of instinct, baring his gut in a moment of blind weakness.

"Dru—"

She barely blinked at him before swinging again. Then the wall was pressed to his back, the sword gone all but the handle that protruded from his belly.

"My Spike wants the sunshine," she said, moving away with haunting grace. When he had the strength to glance up, she was at the window, her fingers coiled around the cord that dangled beside the cheap drapery. "Sunshine, my Spike shall have."

"Dru," he coughed, blood splattering on his lip. The sun had set, of course, and wouldn't be back for hours. But it would be eventually. And as tomorrow's day progressed, the sun would crawl deeper into the room. Until his flesh sizzled and his insides imploded. Until there was nothing left of him but dust.

The room spun.

Blood. He needed blood.

"Good night, sweet prince," Dru singsonged from the distance. "May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Had he been more coherent, Spike would have asked her when she'd ever had the faculties to memorize Shakespeare.

As it was, those words were the last he heard before the world blanked out.

* * *

Three years now. It had been three years. Three years since Merrick approached her on the steps of Hemery High School. Three years since she dusted her first vampire. Three years since her first Big Bad. 

Three years since her first dead body.

It never became simple. She was never able to detach herself from the faces of those she failed to save. She still cried herself to sleep every night she had to wash blood off her hands. The twenty-second victim wasn't easier to bury than the twenty-first. The body count seemed to follow her no matter where she went or how far she ran.

Buffy had buried strangers, classmates, and teachers. She'd stood at Giles's side as Jenny Calendar was lowered into the earth.

She'd never gazed on the lifeless face of a friend. And even though the body was gone, it didn't make her tremble any less. It didn't quell the sickness in her stomach. The image was frozen in her mind. When she closed her eyes, she saw it again and again. There was no escape.

There was little difference from what she'd seen a few hours ago. Before she'd kicked herself free of police custody and torn away in desperation. The library was still a disaster. Bookshelves remained toppled. Incense and herbs remained scattered across the floor. Giles's weapons cabinet was still empty. Blood spots still stained the floor.

And then there was Kendra.

_Kendra. _

Kendra wasn't here anymore, of course, but she had been just a few short hours ago. She'd lain on the floor, her bleeding neck bent at a heartbreakingly awkward angle. Her eyes closed. She hadn't breathed.

Of course she hadn't breathed. Dead people didn't breathe.

Angel had told her. Warned her that she was stupid for thinking everything was always about her. He was right. She hated that he was right. She'd stood beside her friend's dead body because he was right. Because he'd dangled a shot at confronting him in front of her face and she'd leapt at it without thinking. Without waiting. God, without even waiting for Spike.

Spike. _Spike._ Where was Spike?

Buffy stood in the empty library, surrounded by the sad remnants of the attempt to stuff Angel's soul back down his throat. Everything was gone. Wasted. Xander didn't know where Giles was. Willow was recuperating in a hospital room. Cordelia had taken off and was probably halfway to Vegas by now.

There was no Spike. Spike hadn't shown.

Xander had a theory on that. He said Spike had set them all up. Spike had ratted them out. Buffy had argued it was impossible for Spike to rat them out when he hadn't known the plan. She hadn't seen him since last night—hadn't talked with him since bidding him farewell and sneaking a quick kiss in the hallway. After worrying over the bruise on his forehead—the bruise Kendra hadn't, and now never would, apologized for giving him—he'd rolled to his feet, told her he'd see her tomorrow, and left.

Kendra was dead. Willow was in the hospital. Giles was missing. And Spike was gone.

_I can't do this alone. _

She exhaled slowly, her eyes landing on the sword Kendra had abandoned on the conference table. The sword Buffy had kicked a cop—one holding her at gunpoint, no less—to retrieve.

_In the end, you're always by yourself. You're all you've got. _

Buffy shivered. The twerp from Giles's apartment might have been right, but it didn't mean she had to take it with a smile and a nod. Angel hadn't mentioned Spike. Xander had even begrudgingly confessed the peroxided vampire hadn't been anywhere in sight during the raid.

If Spike had been a part of it, Angel would have rubbed it in her face. She just knew he would have.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

She needed Spike. She might be destined to always be alone, but it didn't mean she had to sit down and accept it. If Spike was still alive, she needed him. He would help her. He would help her save Giles. He would help her save the world.

She wasn't about to lose anyone else. Not tonight.

She would find Spike. She'd find him and kiss him until he was glad he didn't need to breathe. Then they'd find Giles and stop Angel. They would.

But she wouldn't lose him. Not Giles. Not Spike. She wouldn't lose anyone else.

Not without dying first.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**: Thank you guys so much for your continued support in this story. I'm gaining steam again (also seeing the light at the end of the tunnel as far as this semester is concerned) and will hopefully have a lot more time to write here soon. I know updates have been sparse, but I really am going to try and improve that in the coming weeks. Here's hoping this fic still has readers…

BIG THANKS to whoever nominated Beloved in Blood over at Solemn Grace Awards!!!

Lastly, voting has commenced at Spark and Burn Awards . Several of my fics—this one included—and a plethora of other stories by some of the fandom's best authors are up for awards. Head over and vote if you get the chance. It'll really make an author's day.

Thank you guys again so much!

**Chapter 10**

Spike was dead.

Buffy stood frozen in the open doorway. She didn't know how long she'd been there. Time had stopped ticking the second her shadow crossed the threshold. Nothing about the room seemed real. Not the turned-down bed. Not the bags of blood scattered across the window-table. Not the crucified vampire pinned to the far wall.

Spike was dead.

_Oh my God. _

It was the most horrifying thing she'd ever seen. Beyond every body she'd found drained. Every familiar face she'd had to bury. Spike was full of life—always full of life. He was someone she knew; someone who was not dead to her, and never had been. He was her enemy. He was her reluctant ally. He was someone she really enjoyed kissing. He was…

God, he was dead.

Buffy sniffed hard and wiped at her eyes. When had she started crying? She hadn't been here long enough to cry. And yet, her cheeks were damp with cold tears. She wasn't sobbing. She wasn't whimpering. She just stood in the doorway and looked at him, crying silent tears.

Spike was dead.

It had happened hours ago—she was certain. He was pale. He was so pale. Paler than a vampire—paler than any corpse she'd ever seen. His white skin melted seamlessly into the white wall behind him. He looked like a snow angel—a snow angel splattered with blood.

He was naked. She wondered why he was naked. Perhaps he'd been here with someone. Perhaps they'd had fun. Perhaps…

No. She knew that wasn't true. Fifteen years of living under her father's roof had educated her childish eyes in the differences between recently-slept-in and recently-fucked-in beds. Spike had just awoken, most likely, when this happened to him. When he was nailed to the wall with a sword.

It had happened hours before. Hours before Kendra was murdered. Perhaps, even, hours before the fumbled confrontation with Angel in the graveyard. The confrontation that had turned out to be a diversion. A diversion planned and executed to render her completely and utterly alone.

God, she was so foolish. Of course Angel and Dru knew about Spike. Of course they did. Spike wasn't staying at a motel because he wanted to. He'd told her as much when he'd scribbled the room number onto the sticky-note he found in her backpack. She was so _stupid_ for thinking they would leave him be; that her friends would be the only ones they targeted.

How odd that her last memory of Spike would be his handing her a note. The note with his room number. How her eyes had watched his lips and wished they could go back to the part where they were making out. He'd handed her something that could have saved his life had she used her brain, and she'd forgotten it because of his mouth.

"Oh Spike…"

The second the words touched the air, everything became real. It was real. And that was all it took for Buffy to break. She couldn't leave him like that. She couldn't. He meant too much to her; he was her vampire, dammit, and she wouldn't leave him crucified. Not when she was the reason he was gone. Not when his alliance with her had cost his life.

Not when she had feelings for him she hadn't gotten a chance to explore. Feelings she was too terrified to give credence. Feelings that had allowed her to shake the shadow of her relationship with Angel off her heels, and given her the strength to acknowledge what she had to do.

She didn't love Spike, but he was _hers._ He was completely hers. He was hers to fight. Hers to kill. Hers to kiss until she couldn't feel her lips. It was his fault; he'd thrown it in with her, and she cared about him. She hadn't wanted to, but he'd made it impossible to look the other way. He'd held her when she cried. He hadn't mocked her weakness. He'd been there for her the way no one else had, or could have been.

And now he was gone, and it was her fault.

All her fault.

Choking back a sob, Buffy's numb legs took tentative steps forward, her eyes never leaving his body. His throat had been slit, trailing rivers of blood down his chest. The handle of the sword had staunched the heaviest blood-flow, but a growing pool of red still soaked his lower body. He was so still. So still.

Vampires were never still. Vampires didn't die and leave a body behind. Why hadn't Giles told her that vampires could bleed to death?

An inhuman cry scratched at her throat. She needed to get him down.

"I'm so sorry, Spike," she whispered, her vision blurring. Her fingers closed around the slippery handle.

God. His blood was on her skin.

Buffy shivered and shook the thought aside, instead throwing her weight behind her arm and tugging at the sword as hard as she could. A sickening sound spilled into the air, the movement reenergizing the blood flow. Her stomach turned and bile rose in her throat, but she wasn't about to stop on account of squeamishness. She owed Spike more than that. So much more.

It took both hands—the sword was too-far buried in his stomach. She ignored the sound of metal sliding against organs and ripped flesh; she ignored the red river that waterfalled down his snow-white skin. She ignored everything until the sword was free; until Spike's body collapsed in a lifeless heap to the floor.

"Oh God!" Buffy cried, blinking away another wave of tears. The sword tumbled from her hands as her knees crashed to the floor, taking him into her trembling arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to…I just had to get it out. I didn't mean to—"

And then something happened. Something that stopped her heart.

It was nearly inaudible, but it was there.

A moan.

The gasp that crushed her chest would have killed her if she'd been anything but a slayer. Buffy's eyes widened, her shaking hands grasping Spike's cold shoulders. "Spike?" she whispered. "Oh my God, are you…"

Another moan. Louder this time.

"Oh God. Oh my God. Oh God."

Buffy was on her feet in a blink, Spike in her arms. She didn't know, exactly, how to bring a vampire back from the edge of death, but she'd be damned if she didn't try. Her feet carried her instinctively toward the bathroom where her trembling arms lowered him into the tub. She'd seen this in movies—people splashing water on the unconscious. Or dragging drunks into the shower because water had some sort of healing ailment that brought others from the brink of delirium. Was that even true? Her mom had never tried it with her father. She'd always just let him sleep it off. What if it worked on people but not vampires?

There were only so many options.

It was always cold water in the movies, but he was already so cold. He'd felt like ice against her fingers and she wasn't about to make him colder. Instead, she turned the faucet on at full heat and stepped back, crossing her arms nervously. Trying hard to ignore the anxious shivers that clamored her insides and made it near impossible to stand still.

Her eyes were drawn irrevocably to the gaping hole in his stomach. How could anyone, human or not, walk away from that?

She didn't know. She thought she'd known everything about vampires but she didn't know this. If he was still alive, would he have that hole in his gut for the rest of forever? That permanent, ugly reminder of what his relationship with her had cost him? God, what if he woke up and wanted to tear her throat out? What if…

Spike moaned again.

Buffy's wide eyes shot to his face. "Spike?" she ventured breathlessly. "Oh God, please."

But that was all. That was all. Nothing happened after that.

Maybe she'd been wrong about the hot water. Maybe it was cold water that held the magical remedy. Buffy lurched forward, desperation charging her veins, and switched the faucet back to cold.

And waited.

And waited.

The tub was filling. The water was turning red. Spike didn't moan again.

_He needs blood. _

Where the thought came from, she didn't know. But it remained, niggling at her subconscious as her eyes soaked him in. Spike's hauntingly pale body. Spike immersed in a bath of blood-water. Spike not moving.

_Not moving. _

It came from nowhere, but she suddenly knew what to do. There was blood in the motel. There was bagged blood on the front table. On that crappy table every motel on the planet offered its patrons. He had blood. He had _bagged_ blood. He had blood.

She had to get him blood.

Buffy twisted on her heel. She was just a second too fast to witness Spike's eyes pop open. To see them blaze with amber as his fangs descended.

But she did hear his growl, and her feet promptly turned to cement.

The next thing she knew, his hands were on her and she was in the tub with him. His eyes were yellow, his expression foregone. There was nothing hinting at recollection on his face—there was only a feral blaze of hunger.

She was too startled to think about kicking him away. Her mind was suddenly vacant; all she knew was his name.

"Spike?"

It was the last sound to touch the air before his fangs pierced her flesh.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Spike was no novice to slayer blood. From the second he'd tasted it in China, he'd dedicated his life to chasing it down. Slayer's blood was the ultimate trophy, and he was determined, in this contest, to always stand victor. To have this be one thing that he did better than anyone. 

He'd tasted slayer blood before, but it had never tasted like this.

It had never tasted so…

_Mine. _

Her blood was his. She tasted thoroughly _his._ Beyond championing her death—beyond earning his chalice—the blood in his mouth belonged to him. His life had been a series of steps to reach this moment. To hold her in his arms and claim what was his. No matter that he didn't remember how he'd gotten here, or whom he was holding; all he knew was it was right. His journey could end now because he'd tasted his purpose.

_Mine,_ the demon purred. _She's mine. _

Spike murmured contentedly around mouthfuls. The demon was right. There had never been a more perfect moment.

A name then. He remembered her name.

_Buffy. _

Buffy moaned and wiggled. Buffy tried to shove him off, but the demon wouldn't be denied. Buffy couldn't hold him from what was his.

"Spike!" someone sobbed, her voice tearing with pain and drenched in unshed tears. "Please! No, oh God, please!"

_Please. Please._ It was a word he'd come to know well over the last century.

"_Please!" _

Spike blinked wearily. The shapeless forms around him were beginning to realign. He was in a tub. He was immersed in icy water. His body was battered but not broken. He had Buffy in his arms, and his fangs in her throat.

He had _Buffy's_ blood in his mouth.

Spike's eyes shot open and his fangs retracted immediately. Buffy's blood. Her slayer's blood. He was naked in the tub and she was in his arms. She was…

"Buffy!" he gasped, shaking his bumpies away, panic charging his veins. Buffy's blood. He'd tasted _Buffy's_ blood. His tongue was bathed in Buffy's blood. He pressed a shaking hand against her torn neck, his hazed mind racing to catch up with logic and reason. Buffy's blood coated his throat. What in God's name had happened here? "Buffy, oh God…I din't mean to. I din't—"

Thankfully, she hadn't been weakened to the point of battling consciousness. Perhaps he hadn't taken as much as he'd thought. He didn't know, and he wasn't about to fire off any questions. For the moment, he just needed to make sure she was all right. Explanations could come later.

What she said, though, had him trembling for completely different reasons.

"It's all right," she said, waving dismissively, her hand settling over his at her throat. 

"Are you okay? Bloody hell, baby, I din't mean—"

She blinked blearily. "It…you didn't take too much. A few mouthfuls. Just…felt like…"

"My God—"

"It was my fault, really."

He would have been knocked off his feet had he not already been sitting. "What?"

"You don't remember?"

"Remember…"

His mind was racing, eager to fill in the gaps; in easy seconds, everything came rushing back. Dru. Dru had been here. Dru had cut his throat. Dru had run him through with a sword. Dru had nailed him to the wall and left him for dead. She'd raised the curtains in the room so the sun would finish the job come morning, if his body hadn't drained of blood before then.

Now he was in the bath. Buffy was in his arms. Buffy was bleeding.

Buffy had saved his life.

Spike exhaled slowly, his bleary gaze taking her in. She might have been hell run over, but fuck if she wasn't as beautiful as ever before. Sitting there in bath water, her hand over his. Her hair was tousled. Her eyes were tired. There was dirt on her skin. She shook beneath his fingers, and though she bled because of him, there was no condemnation in her eyes. She looked almost…relieved.

_Relieved? _

"You remember now, don't you?" she asked weakly, her fingers slowly moving over his where he held her bleeding neck. "You remember what happened?"

"I don't remember you, kitten," Spike replied, cringing and reaching for his own throat with his free hand. He remembered being cut, but the damaged skin had already begun to heal. "Nothing after you got here."

A small, near heartbreaking smile crossed her face. "I don't imagine you would."

"What…" His hand dropped without ceremony to his gut, his fingers grazing the sore patch of skin which had already formed over what would have been a nasty scar. He had slayer's blood to thank for that. Slayer's blood had strength charging his body. Had him itching with a need to pay his maker back for what she'd done to him, and take Angelus down in the process. Buffy's blood had saved his life, and he couldn't remember a lick of it.

Buffy's eyes followed his hand, widening in shock. "Holy hell!"

"Yeah—"

"That's impossible! That sword ran you all the way through! There's no way…" She broke off with an abrupt jerk of her head, the hand at her neck dropping to his stomach and batting his away. "There's no way this—"

"Slayer—"

"It takes me at _least_ a day to heal a cut that's maybe two inches deep. How in God's name—"

"Your blood, love." He hated the look on her face—the look those words inspired. "It's your blood. Your…slayer's blood…it's the sodding holy grail for us. For vampires. Tasting you…just a drop could bring any vamp back from the edge of death. I got good a chunk of you."

And amazingly, the knowledge didn't come with pleasure. It didn't come with a grin and a snappy remark. It didn't come with pride. Hell, it didn't even come with the urge to sink his fangs into her throat and finish what he started. He'd tasted his third slayer—the most powerful slayer he'd ever known—and he couldn't gloat. Couldn't even work up a grin that he knew what she tasted like. He couldn't summon anything but remorse.

Because he'd hurt her. He'd hurt her, and that bothered him. He was too far beyond caring why it bothered him. He knew he was hopeless for her and was exhausted from fighting it. And Christ, with her blood in his body, fighting his feelings for her was nothing short of a disgrace. She'd given him a gift, willing or not. She was in his gut, in his throat, and he was drowning in her.

That particular acknowledgment made his life a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot more complicated in one bloody blink. At least now he could stop fighting his feelings.

All he had to do now was live with the knowledge that he was falling in love with another woman who could never love him back.

"My blood…did that?" she whispered, her fingers grazing his tender skin. "I…how—"

Of course, his feelings for her coupled with the fact that he was feeling much better than Buffy realized had his body reacting in a very inappropriate way. The Slayer was sitting in a tub with him, her hands on his belly, and he was naked. He was naked, revved with the most powerful aphrodisiac on the planet's face, and the hands of the woman his cock wanted like no other were on his body.

His cock was not in the mood to ignore that. And his demon was no longer hungry for blood. His demon wanted Buffy. All of Buffy. Right now.

Buffy knew that he wanted her, of course. She'd felt his erection against her before. She'd torn his lips off with her own. The only sense that came in hiding himself now was wrapped in self-preservation. There was softness in her eyes right now unlike anything he'd seen before, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

"Bring any vamp back from the point of death," he said again, praying she wouldn't glance down or inadvertently nudge his erection. "Though I don' think I was—"

The shadow that crossed her face promptly silenced him. She looked, for all the world, as though she was reliving a horrid memory. It awed him to feel her trembling. "No," Buffy whispered, her voice haunted. "No, you really…I…I thought you were dead, Spike. I thought you'd bled to death or…well, that's stupid, I guess. I guess vampires can't bleed to death."

"Wouldn't know, pet. Though I'm more of a believer now than I was yesterday."

"I pulled the sword out and you made a noise, so I dragged you in here. I was about to go get the blood in the other room when you…made with the lungy."

He winced inwardly. "I din't mean—" 

Buffy shook her head abruptly and rose to her feet before he could blink. "Doesn't matter," she said dismissively. "You're okay. That's what matters." A pause. "Kendra's dead."

Spike would have liked to think, for Buffy's sake, that he would have been more inclined to care had the bint not kicked him unconscious the night before, but it was a lie. Kendra was a slayer and he was still a vampire—dead slayers were good news, as far as he was concerned.

As long as Buffy wasn't the dead slayer in question.

He didn't offer condolences he didn't feel. Instead, he nodded somberly and asked, "How?"

"Drusilla."

Something hard crashed in his chest, and at once, he was both filled with pride and hatred. And hatred was something he'd never thought to feel for Dru, regardless how their story played out.

Thankfully, the Slayer didn't let him stew for long. She gracefully stepped out of the tub, ignoring the water that dripped from her soaking clothes even if she couldn't ignore how hard the cold made her tremble. For his part, Spike was having a time trying to avoid staring at her nipples. Bloody hard task when they insisted on saluting him through her ridiculously thin excuse for a top.

"They have Giles," she said, her voice firm even if he knew her will was not. "Angel and Dru. We have to go."

Spike blinked. It was one thing if a slayer had been killed; now his girl's mentor had been watcher-napped? What the sodding hell had he missed?

"Slayer—"

"It was an ambush. It started today—this afternoon. Angel wanted me cut off completely." She shivered and reached for the towel-rack, tossing one to him before giving thought to herself. "No friends. No watcher. No…you. He sent a lackey to one of my classes today and I was stupid enough to fall for it."

"What the hell are you—"

"Angel lured me out so I wouldn't be there to…Willow was doing the curse. Kendra was with them, so I thought they'd be okay." Buffy's eyes fell shut, toweling her hair dry without once turning to the mirror. She didn't even bother to check the wound he'd left on her throat. "They weren't. Angel had me out there and in the meantime, Dru was raiding the library. Now Giles is gone and I don't know if…and Willow's in the hospital."

"You went out to face Angel without coming to _me_ first?" Spike demanded. "Are you outta your mind?"

"I'm not exactly used to tag-teaming my _saving of the world,_ Spike. I just wanted it to be over." She held up a hand, effectively silencing the waiting retort on his lips. "I know. I know, I know. A thousand times over. I'm a moron. Okay? And because of that, I've lost…I've lost my friend, my watcher, and when I came here, I was terrified I'd lost you, too." She paused. "Can we just save the world now and reflect on how very stupid I am when we're back to being mortal enemies?"

Spike couldn't help but grin. Lovely sentiment as it was, he didn't reckon now was the time to tell Buffy they would never be mortal enemies again. He didn't have warm feelings for enemies. He didn't want to _make love_ to enemies. Fuck silly, maybe, but not _make love_. And while he wouldn't mind fucking Buffy blind a time or two, the dominant urge was for the former.

For the moment, though, she could think what she liked.

"You bloody well nearly did," he said the next second. "Lose me, I mean." And God help him, but the knowledge that losing him had her _terrified_ made him feel as good as a bloke could after his insane ex had run him through with a very pointy sword. "Dru visited me here earlier."

Buffy froze. "The sword?"

"Her handiwork."

"Oh my God."

Spike shrugged with nonchalance he didn't feel. No matter how things had ended between them, Dru's dust was never something he would have sought. He was through with her, yes, but killing her would have meant killing a part of himself. The part of him she'd saved from mediocrity and helped shape into the man he was today. And while coming to terms with the heartbreaking knowledge that she'd never loved him at all had promised to cripple him, he knew he could move on.

Now he wasn't sure he _didn't_ want her dust. His doubt had him thoroughly shaken.

"Spike," Buffy said softly, stepping forward. "I'm so sorry. I—"

He held up a hand. "Don't bother," he said shortly, wrapping the towel around his waist. "Let's get you some dry clothes. If we're gonna save this watcher of yours, we better—"

"You really are going to help me?" she whispered, her eyes bright. 

Spike's eyes narrowed. Aside from the fact he was more or less Buffy's bitch, he bloody well wasn't going to sit back and let Angelus destroy the world. He sure as hell wasn't going to let Dru think she could get away with trying to off him. And if saving the Slayer's Watcher would make her smile at him, he'd do it over and over again.

As it was, Spike was in her debt. She'd given him her blood. Perhaps not willingly, but she'd given it.

"Of course I'm gonna bloody help you," he said shortly. "That was the deal from the beginnin', right?"

"I didn't think—"

"Buffy, you jus' pried me from a sodding wall an' brought me back from what you _swore_ was the brink of nothing. If that doesn' make me _yours,_ I don't know what does." Spike cleared his throat and tightened the towel around his waist, doing his best to ignore the eager bob of his cock at the hint of how very much _hers_ he'd become. "You want to save your watcher? Stop arguin' with me an' go get your biteable arse into something warm."

"I don't—"

"Top drawer."

Spike swore softly when she finally crossed into the other room, leaving him alone with a tub-full of water and blood that belonged to them both.

This was going to kill him. He wasn't sure it hadn't already.

Dru had tried to end him. Buffy had saved his life. It was Buffy he wanted in his bed; Dru whose life he no longer cared about.

This stupid town had turned his life upside down.

And something told him it was only the beginning.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **I did a major cop-out and stole lines from _Becoming Part 2_ toward the end. You'll know 'em when you see 'em. I really hate doing this, but it's very important that some things remain as they are, and this was the best way to do it. I tried to make it as original as possible, but…well…yeah.

Heh. I have no problem with stealing lines from Aaron Sorkin all over the place and plugging them into fics ('cause even he said the best writers steal from others outright) but whenever it's actual BtVS dialogue, I get all sheepish. .

Anyway…and I can't say this enough…THANK YOU to everyone who's sticking with me. ((snuggles readers))

**Chapter 12**

"Drink this."

"I said I'm fine."

Spike rolled his eyes and shoved the glass of orange juice fully under her nose. "I don' sodding care if you feel well enough to tap-dance on a forklift, you're gonna drink this bloody juice if I have to pour it down your throat."

Buffy arched a brow, her gorgeous eyes sparkling with amusement. God, a man could lose himself so easily in those eyes. After this rot about the apocalypse was in the past, Spike was definitely going to take Buffy-gazing up as his favorite hobby. She was so glorious; so _wonderfully_ glorious in everything she did. Every sodding move she made took his proverbial breath away.

"Bossy McBossy," she replied, accepting the proffered juice with a feigned sigh.

"I drank your blood."

"A fact I'm well aware of, considering it was my blood."

"An' I've been around long enough to know you need sweets once you've donated." He held up a hand at the burning question flashing across her face. "Don' bloody fight with me."

"Sorry," she cracked unapologetically, shrugging. "It's against my nature."

Any other night and he would've gotten a brilliant kick out of her jesting; this was the sort of camaraderie which had him falling in love with her in the first place. She'd grown so used to being around him in such a short period of time, whether she wanted to acknowledge as much or not was another question. But for the way she sparred with him, verbally and with that piece of walking poetry she called a body, his insides filled with just enough hope to keep him afloat amidst troubled waters. "Jus' drink," he said, determined to betray nothing.

"The words 'slayer healing' really mean nothing to you, do they?" Buffy replied dryly, arching a brow as she lifted the glass to her lips. If he didn't know better he'd swear she was relishing every second of this.

"Not when we're about to go up against your wanker of an ex an' my sword-happy sire, not to mention Angelus's brainwashed apostles."

She snorted appreciatively. "Don't tell me you're intimidated," she replied, shaking her head. "But I suppose there's nothing wrong with being at full strength."

Spike smiled gently but didn't reply. There wasn't much time to waste in the seclusion of Buffy's home, but the longer they stayed, the less inclined he was to leave. While he appreciated the severity of the accumulating situation around them, he was increasingly convinced Buffy _wasn't_ ready. Oh, she could take Angelus out. There was no doubt there. The conviction in her eyes was unlike anything he'd ever seen, but God her body was so worn. Perhaps she was immune to recognizing her own limitations, but she couldn't hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Not from him. He'd tasted her blood now—he had a part of her inside him. He'd tasted her power and as a result, he knew her strength.

And because of that, he _did_ know her limitations. He could see them clearly because they were not his own. Buffy was tired. Not just physically—physical exhaustion was manageable. Buffy was worn by every feasible stretch of the definition. And Angelus would know it. He'd know the second her scent hit the air.

However, it wasn't likely Angelus would be open to postponing the apocalypse on account of white-hat exhaustion. It was very much now or never; it didn't mean Spike had to like it. He was too worried about Buffy to give a damn about logic or rationality. In the state she was in, she'd be lucky to be a blip on Angelus's radar.

Buffy sipped her orange juice, a long sigh rolling off her shoulders. "Happy?" she asked.

"Over the bloody moon, kitten."

She made an adorable face which he would have kissed right off her lips were they not pressed for time and suffocating under the heavy burden of the looming apocalypse. "I don't like orange juice," she complained.

"I'm not particularly fond of pig's blood, but it din't stop me from drainin' three bags, now did it?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Not the same thing."

"So says you," he scoffed playfully.

"Well, beyond the obvious factors of yuck, you were all but drained."

Spike shuddered, his gut aching on prompt. Yes, he had nearly been drained, and were it not for the fiery woman sitting on the kitchen counter, he might not be standing where he was. Fuck, chances were he wouldn't be standing at all. Either his blood would have drained completely and he would have withered away, or the sun would have finished him off.

Buffy's blood had given him life. He was forever in her debt.

"Same could be said for you," he countered softly, then clarified when she shot him a questioning glance, "Drained, an' all."

She rolled her eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm fine?"

"Dunno. Let's find out." Spike arched a brow pointedly and nodded at the glass in her hand. "Drink up."

"This is crazy."

He grinned and shrugged. "Welcome, friends, to the show that never ends."

"You lost _way_ more blood than I did."

"I had your blood to make it up for me. An', again, it din't stop me from drinkin' more." Spike paused. "This is a pointless argument, love. I'm right, you're wrong, t'was ever thus. Drink the sodding juice."

Buffy hesitated a beat, but her eyes were dancing. "Well, as long as we're concerned with my blood sugar, you might wanna get me a poptart," she replied coyly, waving with her free hand. "Second cabinet on the right."

He arched a brow but did as she instructed, unable to hide his mirth when his back was to her. "You need to be at full strength if we're gonna do this thing," he said, fishing out a pack of brown sugar pastries from the open box in the cupboard. "Angelus isn't one to fuck with half-mass."

"Kinky," she replied with a smirk, catching the individualized poptarts-package off his toss.

Spike fought off another grin. If he kept smiling at how bloody cute she was, she'd never take him seriously. He could appreciate the need to ward off reality with humor and deflection, but she couldn't afford to ignore the danger looming around them. Buffy had placed a lot of stock into Spike's help, and while her faith was something he didn't take lightly, no amount of wishing could change the fact he was still just one vamp. He'd dust at her side of it meant keeping her alive, but if he met his maker before the apocalypse was averted, she'd have no one to rely on but herself.

Granted, if they got out of this alive, it wasn't like their problems were over. Buffy had this crazy notion in her head that things were going to revert back to the way they'd been before. Before the ghosts at her school pitted them against each other. Before he'd gotten a taste of her soft lips. Before he'd felt the heat of her skin and dreamt of how her hot pussy would feel around his cock.

Before he'd started falling in love with her.

He didn't know what it was going to take to convince her tonight was the end of Angelus and Angelus alone. Whatever they shared—whatever was happening between them—was only beginning.

"What happens when this is over?" Buffy asked, startling him with the sudden seriousness in her tone. Either she was amazingly attuned to his every thought and concern or this was weighing on her mind more than she betrayed. And honestly, for either of their sakes, he wasn't sure which he preferred. "When Angel's dust and…what happens?"

The unspoken question dwarfed her actual words, but he wasn't about to make things easy for her. "Not sure I follow, love."

Buffy sighed and took a quick bite of her poptart. "I don't think…no, I know…and telling you this is probably the dumbest thing I could do, but I can't go into this thing without knowing what's going to happen next."

"Slayer—"

"I can't go back to the way things were, Spike. I know…I've talked about it and joked about it and pretended it's gonna happen but I can't…" She broke off, emotion-choked words lodged in her throat. "I can't go from…from, well, this…" She motioned between them. "To wanting you dead again. If I have to kill Angel and then…turn around and kill you, too…it's going to break me. I can't turn off whatever I'm feeling like a switch or something."

Spike inhaled sharply, barely daring to hope. "Your feelings?"

"You know things have changed," she replied, her eyes narrowing as she shifted self-consciously, placing the poptart on the counter beside her. "I don't make out with men at random."

"I should bloody well hope not."

"And…" Buffy trailed off on a long sigh. "Well, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Except I don't want to kill Angel if it means things go back…and then I have to kill you, too." A still beat settled between them. "But if I…if I _had_ to…God, please don't make me, Spike. Don't make me—"

He frowned. It'd been cute at first—this line of completely erroneous thinking—but if the chit was actually serious, they really needed to work on their communication skills. "You think I could go back from this to wantin' to kill you?"

Buffy frowned. "I thought…I don't know. I thought you and Dru—"

Oh bloody hell. Was she serious? Did she really think so little of him?

"Are you completely daft?" Spike demanded, eyes blazing. "Dru tried to _kill_ me."

"Well," she replied, shifting self-consciously, "you're a vampire."

Spike's brow furrowed, irritation surging through his veins. "An' I'd wager you thought attempted murder between lovers—"

She threw her hands in the air. "I don't know what I thought. Only…pain and blood…I thought you guys were all about the kinky."

"Sweetheart, there's a big bloody difference between enjoyin' a rough shag to tryin' to kill your…" His voice faded, inhaling deeply. First thing after the apocalypse was averted, he was going to take Buffy somewhere secluded and perfect her education on vampires. She had some entertaining delusions, granted, but he didn't want her developing a complex when, in actuality, she was the sort of woman which inspired complexes in others. There wouldn't be another for him after this. He wanted Buffy—just as she was. "I admit," he continued carefully. "Dru can make things a li'l unclear. There were a few times over the years when her sex games got so bloody, you'd wonder if she wasn't really aimin' to off you good an' proper."

Buffy's nose wrinkled, and he didn't blame her. He probably could have done a better job of phrasing that. "Nice girlfriend you've got there, Spike," she drawled.

"Well, when you love someone—"

"You let them beat you bloody?"

"Oi! Don't knock it."

Spike swore inwardly the second the words left his lips. He was just digging himself a deeper trench, but now it was more a matter of defending his character. Truth be told, while he'd never objected to whatever Drusilla wanted to do in the bedroom, he'd never shared her affinity for sadism. Never. Spike preferred his sex fairly straight forward: rough or gentle, depending on his mood. But despite that, he'd never wanted to deny his savior anything. If she wanted him to bleed, he'd bleed for her.

"Sorry," Buffy retorted, her brows arching. "I just really don't see the appeal."

"We're off the bloody point anyway," Spike replied. "Dru tried to kill me. That's not somethin' you jus'…forgive an' forget."

She licked her lips and grew very still. "I…I thought you loved her."

So did he. It was amazing how much could change in such a short amount of time. How much a goddess of light could drown out any want of a princess of darkness. How he could watch this tiny human with such adoration when, not too long ago, he would have withered at the idea of leaving Dru—no matter how much she'd hurt him.

Things had changed. Things had drastically changed. He could no more harm a hair on Buffy's head than he could take a daylight stroll.

There was no good way to convey his feelings about his sire to the woman he'd unwittingly fallen in love with. While his love for Drusilla had withered away to nothing more than a shadow of gratitude, he could never completely strike her from his heart. He owed Drusilla his existence, but for the first time, he felt he'd finally repaid his debt. And while he would always remain grateful to her for introducing him to the night, the wealth of what he'd once felt had deflated into almost nothing.

Dru had tried to kill him. _Really_ tried to kill him. There was no forgiving that.

"What I had with Dru is over," Spike said, watching her intently. Was she really so oblivious to how gorgeous she was? How painful it was to be this close to her without touching her? Without nibbling on those succulent lips and exploring the forbidden contours of her body with his eager hands? He wanted to touch her so badly. He wanted to feel her skin beneath his fingers and drown in her kisses. He wanted her to cleanse him of Drusilla's poison and bathe him with glory only a slayer possessed.

"I don't know what that means," Buffy replied a long minute later. "So…you and Dru are of the past. Does…does Dru being out of your life doesn't make you any less a vampire, Spike."

A long sigh tore off his lips and his shoulders slumped. And that was the sodding problem, wasn't it? He should have known the entire _evil_ thing would arise at some point to nip him in the arse.

"What I am, Slayer," he said carefully, "is yours."

Buffy froze. "What?"

"'m yours. There's…God, pet, there's no sodding way for me to go back after this." He shook his head, shaking harder than he wanted to admit. "I din't plan it. This…this thing we have. Whatever it is."

"Whatever it is?"

Spike arched a brow. If she wanted to be the first to verbally define their relationship, she was welcome to it. But they were both licking their wounds right now; they were both trying to find themselves. And while he knew he wanted Buffy beyond the shadow of a doubt, he wasn't about to pressure her into the same realization. Not right now. Not on the eve of the apocalypse her ex-honey had orchestrated. Not when she was so miserably lost.

Perhaps his advanced age gave him perspective. Or perhaps he'd been prepared to walk away from Drusilla all along. He didn't know.

Buffy, though, was all of seventeen years old. Things at seventeen seemed endless. He remembered being seventeen all too well; he'd never thought anything could last forever as much as he had in his adolescence. Not even after Dru found him sniveling in the alleyway. Teenagers thought of forever in ways demons never could. And while Spike had thought his life with Dru would be forever, time and experience had rounded the corners of expectation.

Without Buffy, things would be different. Without Buffy, he never would have realized what he could have in comparison to what he did. Without Buffy, he'd be a wallowing mess of devastation.

But there was no _without Buffy._ She was right with him, and he was walking away from his old life by choice. Dru wasn't leaving him—he'd left her. And he'd left her with the knowledge his heart belonged to someone else. It'd happened fast, yes, but he'd never been more certain of anything in his life.

Never more certain of anything. He had absolutely no idea how it'd happened, but it had. And if Buffy thought she could shake him off after this was over, she was sorely mistaken.

Buffy wet her lips when she realized he wasn't going to make anything easy on her, her eyes dropping to her lap. "Spike—"

"'m yours." He had the idea the words were frightening her, but with the threat of the apocalypse breathing down his neck, he didn't care. If nothing else happened—should the worst come crashing down—he wanted her to know he was at her side. He wanted her to know to whom he belonged. "'m yours."

His fingers slid just under her chin, his palms cupping her jaw as his lips brushed hers. It'd been too long since he'd kissed her. Since he'd had her taste in his mouth. Since he'd felt her hot tongue licking his. He loved the way her lips moved, the way she whimpered into his mouth as though her control was about to be compromised. She was light. She was innocence personified. She was everything he wasn't, and everything he wanted.

"Buffy," he murmured against her lips, soaking in her warmth.

"Uhhh…"

_Just one more taste. One more…_

It wasn't to be. He leaned in for seconds only to be interrupted by the crash of the front door as it flew open. Buffy jumped and shoved him away before her thoughts caught up with her, and while he knew she wasn't acting out of shame, the sudden force in her movements couldn't help but sting.

Perhaps it was fortunate his thoughts weren't allowed to dwell on the matter.

"Buffy! Buffy, are you here?"

The Slayer's head jerked up, her eyes fixing on his in manner of an animal staring down the headlights of an oncoming truck. He knew it was her mum without needing clarification—one didn't tend to forget the voice of a woman wielding an axe, especially if she had a famous daughter. He reckoned by the look on Buffy's face that she hadn't given her mum a moment's thought since toddling off for school. When would she have had time? Today had started with a flaming vamp-memo from her ex and had yet to end. This was just the intermission. There was no time for mums.

"I'm in here, Mom!"

Before Spike could blink, Joyce Summers had barreled into the kitchen, her wide suspicious eyes drinking in the scene before her. He could only imagine what she saw. Her daughter in a blood-stained shirt standing beside a strange man. Well, not entirely strange, but Spike had the distinct memory of being in game face and under a chunk of wall the last time he and the woman made eye contact. He didn't expect to be recognized.

"Are you all right?" Joyce demanded. "You're not hurt?"

Buffy's hands came up. "I'm fine."

The woman's eyes fell to the blood on her shirt. "Whose is that?" She didn't bother waiting for a response, shaking her head resolutely. "You're not fine. We need to—"

"Wouldn't worry," Spike said without thinking, wincing inwardly when Joyce's head snapped in his direction. He really would have preferred to remain as invisible as possible, but he similarly didn't want Buffy to find herself under more pressure than necessary. The girl was going to snap and they still had a world to save. "'S mostly mine."

She blinked. "What?"

Buffy elbowed Spike hard, though her eyes shone with gratitude.

As it was, his interference didn't distract the woman as long as he would've liked. Satisfied the blood wasn't due to a mortal wound, the look in Joyce's eyes swayed from concern to suspicion, and her tone followed suit. "Buffy," she said levelly, "terrible things have happened. What were you doing?"

Spike blinked and said perhaps the worst thing he could have said. "What, your mum doesn' know?"

Yeah, definitely the worst thing. The glare Buffy shot his way verified as much.

"Know what?" Joyce demanded.

Buffy was trembling so hard he feared she'd inadvertently drill a hole through the kitchen floor. He wanted so badly to reach out and reassure her with a touch, but something told him it wouldn't be much help under the mother's wary eyes.

Though perhaps a touch would have prevented the Slayer from completely falling off her rocker. "That I'm, uhh…in a band. A-a rock band with Spike here." She shot Spike a sharp glance, silently begging him to back her up.

Bugger. He was such a fool for her.

"Right," he heard himself saying. "She plays the…the triangle."

"Drums," Buffy corrected quickly.

He fought off a grin at the visual, but he wasn't about to contradict her. If his girl wanted to play the drums in their lie, by God, she'd play the drums. "Drums," Spike echoed with a nod. "She's hell on the old skins."

Something told him their brilliant cover story wasn't sticking.

"Hmmm," Joyce mused, clearly unconvinced. "And, uh, what do you do?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, I sing."

There was a thick pause. Buffy plastered on her brightest aren't-I-the-picture-of-innocence grin, which, as expected, had the reverse effect. Joyce palpably wavered between confusion and incredulity, ultimately falling completely over to suspicion again. Her eyes landed on the blood-splattered shirt once more before she completely took in Spike's appearance.

"Buffy," she said carefully. "A girl is dead. The police were here earlier; they're saying you're responsible."

"Rot," Spike growled before he could stop himself.

"Spike!" Buffy hissed.

"No, that's complete rot. I can't believe your mum would even…" He turned to the woman, eyes flaring dangerously. And he noted, with more than just some satisfaction, his love for the Slayer hadn't affected how menacing he could look when it was necessary. The barest hint of accusation in the woman's voice had red flashing across his eyes. Cowering right now would be the smart thing to do.

Joyce was a lucky woman. Had she been anyone but Buffy's mum…

"The police said—"

"The _police?"_ Spike barked incredulously. "Are you naturally this thick?"

Buffy elbowed him again, but he ignored her. There wasn't any _oomph_ behind it anyway.

"If you think she's capable of killin'—"

Intimidated or not, Joyce was going to hold her ground. "I'm not going to be lectured by a stranger in my own home." She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "Why don't you show yourself out?"

Spike huffed. He wasn't going anywhere. Regardless, he couldn't help but swell with warmth when Buffy grabbed his wrist to keep him from moving. She knew just as well as he did that he wasn't budging; this was her way of providing support, and it meant the world.

"Mom, I need him."

"Oh Buffy, come on—"

And for whatever reason, something in the girl snapped. It was unprecedented. Unpredictable. Not even Spike saw it coming. One second she was standing there, her small, powerful hand wrapped around his wrist, and the next her eyes were flashing and her shoulders were thrown back with courage unlike anything he'd ever seen. He was used to Buffy the Confident Slayer. Buffy the Confident Girl was a completely foreign concept, and she had him enchanted upon first glance.

"You want the truth?" she snapped, plowing ahead before Joyce could get a word in. "I'm a vampire slayer. Spike here? He's a vampire."

Spike nodded awkwardly when the woman turned her eyes to him in question. What else was there to do?

"And right now, we have to go save the world." Buffy nodded at him, and that was that. He moved immediately for the back door, collecting the sword they'd propped between the cabinet and the door-handle and resting it against his shoulder. He moved and Buffy kept talking, standing across from her mother, who was frozen with astonishment. "The girl who died? Kendra? She was a friend of mine. A good, good friend. And the people who killed her are going to end the world. They have Giles, too. Spike and I are going to stop it. So you stay here. We'll take care of everything."

A smirk tugged on Spike's lips. His girl had balls of brass. He knew her heart was thundering. He knew her pulse was racing. He could smell waves of tension rolling off her small, perfect body. But her voice didn't waver or crack. There was nothing but conviction when she spoke. She was a vision of perfection—a tower of fortitude unlike anything he'd ever seen. And if he lived a millennia, he'd never forget this moment. Never.

She was perfect. And he was lost to her.

"They have Mr. Giles?" Joyce echoed, dumbfounded.

"Angelus an' Dru," Spike confirmed with a nod, even if his input was unneeded. "They'll decorate the rug with his librarian guts if we don' get a move on."

Buffy's nose wrinkled in disgust but she shot him a grateful glance nonetheless. She knew what he was trying to do. She knew without needing to be told.

"We should call the police."

Spike rolled his eyes. Again with the sodding police.

"No. We're not calling the police. Spike and I are handling it."

"Handling _what?_ What is happening?"

There was a long, tempered pause. "I'm sorry, Mom, but we don't have time for this." Buffy turned to him fully and nodded. "Spike?"

"The night awaits, pet."

"No!" Joyce protested. "I am tired of _I don't have time or you wouldn't understand._ I am your mother, and you will _make_ time to explain yourself."

Buffy didn't even spare her a glance. "I told you, I'm a vampire slayer."

"Well, I just don't accept that!"

Spike snickered and shook his head, fully prepared to ignore the psychotic woman and get to it, but he noted almost immediately that Buffy wasn't budging. And when he turned around, he could feel anger rippling off her body like tiny shock waves. She was frozen in the doorway, and he knew without having to be told the last strain of her will had snapped.

"Buffy," he said softly, encouragingly. He didn't even know if she heard him.

And a few agonizing seconds later, he had his answer.

"Open your eyes, Mom," she said slowly, her voice trembling, every inch of her fighting for strength he feared the day had already stolen. "What do you think has been going on for the past two years? The fights, the weird occurrences. How many times have you washed blood out of my clothing?" She fisted her red-smeared shirt demonstrably. "Blood _like this,_ and you still haven't figured it out?"

"Well, it stops now!"

"No! It doesn't stop. It _never_ stops!"

Spike remained silent, but he could smell her tears and it tore him apart.

"Do-do you think I _chose_ to be like this?" Buffy continued, her voice dangerously close to teetering toward a shrill. "Do you have any idea how lonely it is? How _dangerous?_ I would _love_ to be upstairs watching TV or gossiping about boys or…God, even studying! But I have to save the world. _Again." _

"No. This is insane. Buffy, you need _help." _

It was truly amazing how people could listen without hearing a damn word. And Spike wasn't about to stand idly by; he'd already seen something too personal for words, and while his insides were quivering with rage, he knew how it sounded to outsiders. The woman hadn't seen anything but blood. She had no proof.

Well, she was about to get some.

"She bloody doesn't, you infuriating bint," he snarled, fangs descending. He drank in Joyce's horror with grim satisfaction, motioning quietly for Buffy to join him. "Accept it or not, the girl's on a timetable. If you wanna be here to chat this out in the mornin', I suggest you stop preventing us from—"

"What the hell are you?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "He's a vampire, Mom. Get over it."

"I don't—"

"We're leaving."

"No. No!" Joyce paraded forward intently. "I am not letting you out of this house. Not with—"

"You can't stop me."

"Oh yes, I—"

It was over too quickly for Spike to appreciate; all he saw was the aftermath. There was a crashing sound as the woman toppled back, and when it was over, Joyce had been shoved against the island in the middle of the kitchen. She was gasping for air as though her head had been held under water, and staring at her daughter like she held the face of a stranger.

Buffy turned back to him, her heavy, determined eyes ready. She looked ready to cry, but her voice betrayed nothing. "Let's go," she said.

"You walk out of this house," Joyce screamed after her, barely recovered, "don't even _think_ about coming back!"

Buffy didn't even pause. She reached for his hand, and he gave it to her.

There was no more time for pausing. No more time.

They had a world to save. There would be plenty of time once this nasty business was behind them.

God, he hoped.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

She didn't realize she was crying until she got a face-full of surprisingly cool spring air. There weren't many strong gales of wind in Sunnydale, but they always seemed to accompany the various peaks and falls of her given mood, and her mood right now was all over the place.

She felt weak and beaten. She felt inches away from a complete collapse. She was angry and hurt. Her insides were numb; she could barely feel her legs. And were it not for the hand at the small of her back, providing subtle strength through even subtler caresses, she would have completely collapsed. It was the knowledge she wasn't alone which kept her moving forward. She wasn't alone.

She wasn't ready to be alone.

"Are you all right?"

It was the sort of question one asked to be polite. The sort of question with no set answer. And even knowing this, Buffy couldn't help a dry chuckle from tearing through her lips. There was no such thing as _all right._ Kendra was dead. Giles was missing. Willow was in the hospital. Her mother had kicked her out of the house. Now, armed only with a sword and a renegade vampire, she was about to face the man who'd once claimed her heart with the hopes of ending his existence once and for all.

Spike had come to town to kill her. And for some reason he was at her side. Her lips still hummed with the echoes of his kisses. Her skin buzzed when she remembered the way his eyes pierced hers. The words he'd whispered had her mind racing, attempting to reconcile the confusing storm of emotions she felt for him with the part of her holding onto the love she'd once shared with Angel.

Tossing in her growing feelings for Spike on the mountain she had to defeat tonight would get her nowhere. Instead, Buffy nodded tersely, a forced smile stretching her lips. "Why do you ask?"

"Buffy—" The tone in his voice told her plainly he wasn't about to drop the subject.

"Look, can we not?"

"She was out of line, love. You know—"

A strangled giggle erupted through her throat. "Really? You think she was? 'Cause kicking your world-saving daughter out of the house on the night of the apocalypse seemed to be the rational reaction from where I was standing."

"It won't take. She'll—"

Buffy stopped shortly, jerking Spike to a halt beside her. "What?" she demanded, pivoting on her heel to face him, her eyes blazing. "She'll what? Realize the error of her ways? Decide I'm _not_ crazy when, hey, the world _doesn't_ end? I don't have time for this. I don't have time for…for…"

_I don't have time for life. _

She didn't realize she'd looked away until Spike's hand settled under her chin, his gentle touch coaxing her eyes upward. And when their gazes clashed an undeniable sense of peace flooded her veins. She didn't know how or why, but he wasn't going to abandon her. Not tonight. Not after tonight. If she needed a place to stay, he would find her one. If she needed a shoulder to cry on, he would lend his. If she needed someone to fight her battles for a change, he would happily shoulder the responsibility.

Buffy was too tired to toy around with _why._ She didn't know why. But for some reason, Spike was everything to her right now. Her friend. Her ally. Her kissing-buddy. And he'd promised her he wouldn't rear his vampiric head once the fight was over. Aside from the assistance rendered the past few days, there was no reason to trust him. He was, after all, a vampire, and vampires were notoriously back-stabbing assholes. But she trusted Spike. Right now, she couldn't help but trust him.

Perhaps the difference resided in the way she trusted him. She didn't trust him as a vampire. She did, however, trust him as a man.

"If I stop and think about everything that's happened, I'm gonna lose it," she whispered belatedly, realizing they'd done nothing but stare into each other's eyes for long, heated seconds. "Please…"

The only way to survive in this job was to compartmentalize her life. She couldn't be Buffy and the Slayer at the same time; not when the world was at stake. The Slayer had to march in without the heavy burden of Buffy's problems weighing her down. If the Slayer allowed Buffy to distract her, everything would end. It was what had killed slayers in the past, and what would undoubtedly kill her in the future. She was perpetually caught between two lives. She had to be one or the other. She couldn't be both.

Not right now.

And though nothing else passed between them, Spike seemed to understand. Light filled his ocean eyes, and before she could pull away, he'd let the sword in his hands clamor to the pavement, his head dipping and his lips brushing hers. It was a gentle touch which quickly spun out of control. His tongue persuaded her mouth to welcome him, stroking her with tenderness bespeaking everything which remained unsaid between them. He drowned her in the richness of his flavor. Wholly masculine. Wholly dangerous. Wholly _hers. _

He'd told her earlier that he belonged to her. And for the way he moaned into her mouth, the surprising softness of his hands as he cupped her cheeks to capture her in his kiss—as though anticipating a fight she hadn't the strength to put up—she could believe him. She could believe for a minute he spoke the truth, and he truly was hers.

She didn't know what to do with him, but he was hers. Her heart was too sore for love. Too gun-shy to attempt to place a label on her feelings. Knowing she was going to slay Angel tonight for the greater good still hurt more than she could verbalize. She didn't want to think of tomorrow because she knew she had to get through the night first. But Spike was kissing her, loving her mouth with his, stroking her cheeks with calloused thumbs and whispering unintelligible words into her body. He was hers. The world allowed for no other knowledge.

Spike pulled away just a hair—just enough for his unneeded breaths to tease her lips with his taste as he drowned her in his eyes. Her heart thundered and her pulse raced, but she couldn't look away if her life depended on it.

"This isn't over, love," he said softly, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Not between us."

The part of her which doubted his words was effectively killed forever. There was no questioning the conviction in his eyes. He meant what he said. Every syllable. "I know," she replied.

"You an' I'll sort this out."

Buffy didn't bother pretending to misunderstand. "Okay."

Spike smiled and kissed her brow, then her lips again. "Okay," he murmured, stepping back and collecting the abandoned sword. "Okay."

It was amazing how much certainty a simple kiss could grant. And while she knew, truthfully, nothing between them could ever be defined as _simple,_ the reassurance fueled her with just enough to keep moving forward.

The sun would rise and this would be over.

She wouldn't worry about picking up the pieces until she could rest.

* * *

As it turned out, the sun started to rise well before they made it to the mansion. It was pure luck, she supposed, that they ran into Xander before taking refuge underground. He'd come to serve as the cavalry, and to deliver Willow's bloodthirsty _kick Angel's ass_ message. In other words, he'd come with good intentions but very little usefulness. And he'd unwittingly given her the task of telling him as much.

The only thing she could trust Xander with was getting her Watcher to safety.

For his part, Spike said something snide and disappeared into the sewers. Buffy forced her grin aside. She was just happy to hear her friend was conscious.

Xander watched the vampire vanish, nose wrinkled in distaste. "You gonna be all right?" he asked, turning back to Buffy. "I can put my rock to good use, you know."

Buffy glanced to the indicated stone in his hands with a grateful smile, shaking her head. "I have all the help I need."

"Spike?"

She nodded. "And before you start—"

Xander's hands came up, stone and all, and he shook his head. "No, no. I'm all with the understanding. Really. The enemy of my enemy…and all that."

Buffy bit her tongue and decided it wasn't worth wasting time to argue her point. Her friend was the perpetual tennis ball in the way he bounced from understanding to suspicious without a blink. But she was grateful for him, and more than relieved that she could entrust someone else to save Giles's life while she and Spike focused on their respective exes. "We'll be fine," she assured him. "Just get Giles. Get Giles. Get out. I don't want to have to worry about you."

"You won't. Stealth's my middle name."

She quirked her head. "I thought it was LaVelle."

"And for that, you must die." Xander smiled wearily and took her in his arms for a quick but much needed hug. "Watch yourself, Buff."

"Always."

She dropped into the sewers without another word and fell quickly into pace at Spike's side. He knew the way down here, and she was at his mercy. Didn't much matter, though; she needed him and he needed darkness. As it was, she much doubted Angelus and company would know to expect an underground attack. Or an attack at all. Her ex had gone to a lot of trouble to sever her resources. He and Dru probably shared the belief that Spike was dust. And the longer they believed it, the easier this would be for all of them.

The sooner it would be over.

* * *

"Hello, lover."

The words made her skin crawl. He'd called her _lover_ during each encounter. It was a nasty word, and it would never cross her lips again. But for what she needed, the words conveyed the appropriate message. Angelus glanced up and frowned, though the element of surprise was definitely not a luxury she could entertain for long. He was shocked to see her, which was obvious, but he'd been prepared. And right now she was little more than an unwanted distraction.

"I don't have time for you," he remarked, bored.

"You don't have a lot of time _left,"_ Buffy clarified, raising the sword Spike had handed her. She could still feel the warmth in the handle from where he'd held it so long. And for a fleeting second she allowed her mind to wander to wherever he was—to the place he'd situated himself for the surprise attack—and whisper an ethereal kiss across his lips.

"Coming on kind of strong, don't you think?" Angelus retorted, his eyes sizing her up. "You're playing some deep odds here. Do you really think you can take us all on?"

It was damned hard not to gloat, and in the end, she decided the effort was wasted. "No, I don't."

"'S what she's got me for."

Spike's voice filled the main gallery timed with a nasty scream and an explosion of dust, and chaos inevitably erupted. Angelus barely had time to gape before he found himself uppercut by the blow of a crowbar. And for a few long seconds, reality suspended into a steady stream of slow-motion. Buffy saw Angelus's eyes blaze and fangs descend—the fat load of good it did him. In a flash, Spike had clipped him again, and watched gleefully as the big lug crashed to the floor.

"Guess my invite got lost in the mail, ehh Peaches?" he drawled, arching the crowbar far above his head. "'S a mite rude to exclude me an' the lady. Especially after all we've been through together."

He glanced up and met her eyes, flashing a reassuring smile. And while her timing couldn't be worse, Buffy was paralyzed with staunch appreciation. He was magnificent. He was absolutely magnificent. His torn black tee clung to his wiry form, accentuating his muscular build with subtlety lost on those who didn't know what to look for. There was dirt on his cheek. His hands were red with his own blood. He'd nearly died tonight, and here he was. Beating her enemy to the ground.

_For me. _

It was fortunate he caught her staring; else she might have assumed form of a permanent statue and let the world end all for the want of appreciating the male body.

"Slayer!" he yelled, eyes widening with worry. "Behind you!"

Buffy whirled around just in time to catch a surprisingly forceful punch to the jaw at the courtesy of one of Angelus's cronies. Across the room, Drusilla had similarly snapped out of her daze and was making up for lost time by screaming her lungs off. Her dark eyes were trained on Spike, who hadn't broken form. He was beating the living hell out of Angelus, and enjoying every second.

Was Drusilla angry to see Spike alive? Buffy couldn't help but wonder as she dove under the crony's swinging arm, her sword effortlessly lopping the vamp's head clean off his neck and rendering him a dust-cloud. Where there was one, though, there was inevitably another. Drusilla was advancing, her steps slow and methodical, her malicious gaze not once breaking. And as though knowing Buffy would do everything in her power to stop the insane vamp, the lackeys just kept coming.

"Spike!" she screamed in warning, but her companion didn't hear her.

He was too busy beating the stuffing out of Angelus.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" he panted, smashing the crowbar across the elder vampire's head with a satisfying crack. It was amazing how much damage he could inflict in just a few brutal swings. By the time Drusilla was close enough to pounce, Angelus was nothing more than a bloodied mess on the floor.

"Spike!" Buffy cried, though her form never broke. Her heart plummeted—the malice on Drusilla's face was unlike anything she'd ever seen. The woman's eyes were thoroughly black, and in the endless sea of ebony lurked hatred which would make the devil tremble.

Spike had seen it earlier, of course. Right before his former beloved plunged a sword through his gut. How he could look at the woman he'd shared so much with and see nothing but the darkest storm of loathing without breaking was beyond her.

_He's so strong. _

"Don't stop!" Spike instructed her, gracefully deflecting every erratic blow Drusilla threw at him. He moved as though he'd already thumbed through the script; as though he knew her next attack before she did. As though reality had a five-second tape delay, giving him an immeasurable advantage.

And through it all, he never stopped worrying about her. "Buffy!" he screamed. "Duck!"

Buffy dropped to the ground and rolled, the sword in her hands lashing at the charging lackey on instinct. She was showered with dust, and they kept coming. It was all very far away—she felt her body reacting to every attack, every punch thrown, but her mind remained with Spike. Drusilla was shrieking things that would break a lesser man. For Spike's part, he barely flinched.

On the ground, Angelus was beginning to stir.

"Spike—"

"Look at me again, Slayer, an' I'll rip your lungs out." The words lacked conviction, and when their eyes clashed, she saw nothing but concern. "Finish off the giant sod. I'll take care—"

"She's ruined you!" Drusilla screeched, her blood-red nails scratching crimson-rivers into his cheek. "No crumpets. No tea. Nasty little Slayer wiggles inside your head. No more shadows. You're—"

Spike rolled his eyes and clocked his ex in the chin. "Knock it off, Dru."

How he could be so blasé when facing the woman who had run him through with a sword was thoroughly beyond her. There was nothing but cold indifference on Spike's face. None of the hatred she'd seen earlier that night. The way he'd violently rebuked the idea he could ever again love the woman who had tried to end his life. And Buffy was so enchanted by the exchange, as well as her continued choreography to avoid the laughable attacks of Angelus's minions, she didn't realize Angelus himself had managed to climb to his feet until something akin to a sonic blast pierced the room in half.

Buffy glanced up a second too soon, just as Angelus jerked the sword free of the stone demon's chest. The move was so sudden it made everything in the mansion screech to a standstill. Even Drusilla, whose screams were likely attracting the attention of every dog in the tri-state area, fell abruptly silent with an air of reverence.

"Oh," the insane vampire breathed. "Here he comes."

_Oh no he doesn't._ Buffy scuffled to the statue, her hand clenching the handle of her sword. She'd fought too hard and lost too much to allow Angelus the last laugh. And while his cackling eyes told her he thought the battle already won, if she died tonight she knew damn well it would be in the fiery release of Hell on Earth. Angelus wouldn't best her. Not tonight. Not _now. _

"You almost made it, Buff," Angelus remarked, greedy eyes scaling the clean iron of the sword he'd extracted.

"It's not over yet."

"My boy Acathla here is about to wake up." God, he spoke like a proud papa. "You're going to Hell."

Buffy didn't flinch. "Save me a seat."

The extensity of Giles's training covered a wide range of weaponry. She'd fired crossbows, battled with staffs, and thanks to Xander, could work her way around a rocket-launcher without batting an eye. Now with her sweat-laced hand clutching the hilt of a sword, raising the steel in a lightening flash to parry the blow Angelus aimed at her head, navigating her way around a weapon she'd never manned was surprisingly simple. Time around her remained indefinitely suspended. The clouds in her mind parted and she thrived on one golden piece of understanding.

She had to kill Angelus. She had to, else the world would suffer.

"You think this matters?" Angelus rasped, lashing for her throat. "You really think this is anything but a stall? Silly, silly Buffy."

Buffy shrugged and dropped to the ground again, thrusting the sword for his legs, the teeth of the blade scratching his calf. It wasn't a crippling blow; it was hardly a blow at all. But she took her victories where she could and at the moment, she'd consider any blade-on-skin contact a small triumph.

"You play the hand you're dealt," she replied, shrugging as she rolled to her feet. "Good a motto as any."

"You think Spike—"

The blades clashed and she found herself staring up into chocolate eyes which used to regard her with loving warmth. They held at a standstill for what felt like hours before Angelus balked, his arms maneuvering upward in an arcing swing and narrowly missing her on the downward plummet. She found herself pacing backward, her body seemingly determined to put as much space between her and Angelus as possible, even as her legs carried her forward to trade more blows with his sword.

"Gotta say, Buff," Angelus snarled, attempting the above-arc swing again and sending her this time onto a small table, which rattled with her weight and sent small icons of Acathla-worship to the ground. "This is almost worth it. I love the way you move."

Buffy's stomach rolled in disgust, her sword lunging for his chest. How a bulking giant like her ex could move as fast as he did—and duck low enough to avoid contact—was beyond her, but the next thing she knew she was leaping again to avoid a blow at her legs. The floor beneath her seemed to quake when she landed, where she immediately dropped and rolled when Angelus's sword came crashing toward her.

Only this time, she felt pain. Her arm was suddenly bare and wet. She was bleeding. It was a superficial wound, but the slice echoed through her body. Blood made everything real.

Too real.

"Gonna enjoy licking that up," Angelus snarled nastily, tongue laving his lips.

"Sorry," Buffy spat, forcing herself not to reach for the wound with her free hand. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "I've found I prefer Spike's mouth."

The black flash in Angelus's eyes should have terrified her, but it didn't. Not like the accompanying smile. She'd never seen a smile she could truly classify as malevolent. A smile which would literally make one's bones rattle with fear. Perhaps it was a combination of his lips with the darkness in his eyes, she didn't know. All she knew was she'd never seen anything like it before. "Spike's mouth?" Angelus retorted, his tone betraying nothing of his outrage. "Sorry to break it to you, lover, but Spike wouldn't know what to do with his mouth without an owner's manual. You really think—"

"That you're disgusting? Yep!" Buffy's legs shot out, wiping his legs off the floor in a blink. Angelus didn't even bother in trying to climb back to his feet; instead, he turned to face her on his knees, the sword in his hand slicing toward her in three rapid strokes, all of which met nothing but the steel of her own weapon. On the forth swing, Buffy managed to knock his sword into the table she'd leapt onto just a minute before, pinning his grip but leaving herself open for a fierce backhand with his free arm.

In the distance—thousands of miles away—she heard a feminine wail, fading as though the world around them was blinking out. Buffy's head craned instinctively to Spike, catching his eyes as Drusilla fell from his arms in an unconscious heap. And then there were three. The cronies had either fled or dusted, Dru was on the ground, and Acathla was waking.

But she wasn't alone.

However, for the rage that exploded across Spike's face the second Angelus's hand smacked her, she knew logic and reason had abandoned him. Spike was a creature of passion and impulse, much like she was, and she knew by his eyes that he wouldn't stop before lunging—wouldn't assess which angle would give him the greatest advantage.

Buffy sucked in a breath. Spike's face shifted and a roar split the air, his body barreling into Angelus's before she could scream in protest.

"Son of a bitch!" her companion snarled, jerking the sword out of Angelus's surprised hands, the teeth of the blade slashing across the elder vampire's gut once, then again when the other vampire attempted to rear around and regain control. By the time Angelus managed to wrangle the sword back into his possession, the bulk of the damage had been done. Blood splattered across the stone floor, gushing with an effect Buffy had only seen in horror movies. His already-pale skin whitened to frightening measures. And before she could stop herself, her mind flashed to the presentation of Spike crucified to his motel wall. There was no comparison, of course, but she saw it all over again anyway. No one's skin, vampire or not, should ever be so white.

However, for his part, Angelus refused to reveal weakness or show pain. Instead, he lashed a bloody line across Spike's gut, reopening the healing hole Drusilla had put there, and allowing him only a second to howl before propelling the younger vampire to the far side of the foyer with a malicious kick to his open wound.

"This White Knight shit, as funny as it is," Angelus panted, his free hand feeling out the seriousness of his own gash, "is getting really old."

Spike collided against the wall with a devastating crash, his chest heaving and his amber eyes burning with outrage the likes of which Buffy had never seen. And despite what she was seeing—the blood, the seriousness of the situation compiling around her, a small but very present and purely feminine thrill raced through her body—something she couldn't explain. While she certainly had no delusions of being rescued, the possessive glimmer in her companion's gaze couldn't help but secure her in a way no words or actions could ever hope to achieve.

"Din't your mum ever teach you it's not nice to hit girls?" Spike retorted ironically, lifting himself to his feet, his left arm pressed to his bleeding gut. His legs shook but he didn't fall. He was the picture of strength.

Angelus snorted. "Didn't your _mum_ ever teach you to die properly? For crying out loud, what does it take to—" His voice tore into a scream without warning, his gaze landing accusingly on the insane vampire who lay still on the other side of the room. "—_rid of one's enemies, Dru?" _

"That's precious," Spike drawled.

"Honestly, she _nailed_ you to a fucking wall. Doesn't anyone stay _dead_ anymore?"

Buffy snapped back to herself on a whim, her sword suddenly reminding her of its weight as she arched it high above her head. "You're one to talk," she spat, though speaking proved to be a bad idea as it only served to provide a verbal warning. Angelus whirled around and parried her attack with a hair of a second to spare, his body forced backward by the power of her blow.

"You and your game of—" She kicked him across the face and sent him back again. "—musical souls."

"The game's such—"

Her leg smashed his head once more, and the giant came tumbling down. On his knees in front of Acathla, his sword tumbling from his bloodied hands. And that was it. Her opening. Her chance. Buffy sucked in a deep breath and arched the blade back, her tired but determined arms more than ready for the finishing blow.

She was in mid-swing when it happened. Had it been a second too late, his blood would have sprayed the stone demon behind him, silencing Acathla's wake just in time for Angelus to witness the collapse of his empire. But it wasn't a second too late. It wasn't. The vampire's gasp and timely groans resounded through the empty corridors with the foreign hint of pain. His head jerked up, his eyes vacant and bright. It was just a flash but it was there—she saw it. And when it was over, he met her gaze for a blink before crashing entirely to the floor, almost instinctive sobs scratching his throat.

Buffy was frozen, her sword still poised and ready, her chest heaving as her mind raced. She knew, logically, what she was seeing. She knew it. Awareness stung every nerve in her body, awash with disbelief, her aching heart hammering so hard she was amazed it still worked.

_No. No. Impossible. _

Her brain refused to believe her eyes. To accept what she already knew. But it was there; it was right in front of her. And before she could catch up with herself, the vampire at her feet was climbing to a stand, his eyes thick with tears.

It sold her. Angelus never cried.

No, Angelus never cried. But Angel would.

And for that second, everything around her vanished. Acathla. Drusilla. Even Spike. Everything vanished, and it was just her and Angel. Angel, not Angelus, meeting her gaze, his own lost and confused. Angel clamoring for recognition. Angel…

"Buffy," he breathed, the cadence of her name on his lips striking her like a forgotten dream. She hadn't heard his voice in months, and without warning, every dam inside collapsed. "What's going on?"

She didn't move. Didn't dare. The sword remained suspended above her head. Her logical head was screaming it could be a ploy. A last attempt by Angelus to spare his life. She needed to be ready. One wrong move and…

…only this wasn't a ploy. Her heart knew what her mind refused to believe.

"Where are we?" he demanded, erratic eyes taking in their surroundings. "I-I don't remember."

The sword lowered much to the gratitude of her aching muscles. She barely acknowledged the weariness in her body. The whole of her had given way to shock. "Angel?"

He blinked, his eyes zeroing in on her wound. The superficial cut on her arm. The one he'd given her. "You're hurt."

Did he not feel the pain of the lashes to his stomach? He'd reached for her, noticed her, before turning his eyes to himself. Her heart melted and tears finally broke free.

_Oh God. _

And before she could stop him, before her confused thoughts could reconcile a feasible answer, she found herself in his arms. She didn't know how she'd gotten there—if she'd stepped forward or if he'd grabbed her. All she knew was the warmth of familiarity.

"Oh, Buffy…God."

Her eyes fell shut, a trembling sigh tearing through her. _Oh God. _

"Oh my God. I feel like I haven't seen you in months. Everything's so muddled. I…" His lips dropped to her shoulder, his arms tightening around her. And for a minute, for a blessed minute, she could let herself forget. She could.

Only, no, she couldn't. The haze vanished after what felt like years, and she remembered herself. She remembered where she was, and why she was here. She remembered what she was supposed to do. She remembered…

_Spike. _

Around Angel's shoulder, she saw him. And the hurt in his eyes nearly broke her all over again. Emotions exploded and warred, and without warning, her heart lurched and her legs begged her to go to him. To reassure him—though of what she didn't know. Past, present, and future were suddenly in the same room. Past was hugging her. Present was staring at her as though she'd just traded him for thirty pieces of silver. Future remained in the shadows, keeping its face shielded from wandering eyes.

Angel didn't know Spike was there. Didn't acknowledge Drusilla lying on the ground, or the gentle roar of Acathla stirring behind him.

_Acathla. _

Buffy forced her eyes to leave Spike's, drawn irrevocably to the contorting face of a stone demon. The frightening gargoyle brows angled downward, the previous gray slab of his eyes burning red. The contours of his lips parted grotesquely, and within the depths of his mouth she saw Hell itself.

Angel must have sensed the sudden tension in her body. He pulled away, brow furrowing. "What's happening?"

_Everything. _

It was what she had to do. What she'd come here to do. And the words which left her lips reflected her conviction. "Shhh," she whispered, not allowing herself to listen to her own voice. "Don't worry about it."

"I love you."

Her heart shattered and she heard Spike inhale sharply, though his eyes no longer reflected a shield of jealousy. There was something else there—awareness. He knew as well as she did what she had to do. And now he was waiting to see if she'd actually do it.

Buffy didn't give Angel the words back, but she didn't know for whose benefit. Perhaps it was cowardice. Perhaps it was necessity. Perhaps it was selfishness. She didn't know. She didn't let herself think about it. She couldn't.

If she did, she'd never go through with what she needed to do.

"Close your eyes," she whispered, her lips unable to keep from stealing a brief kiss from his.

A kiss of goodbye. Angel deserved as much.

It was the last thing he felt before the sword speared through his chest. Before his eyes thrust open in pain. Before she took a definitive step away from him, ignoring the arm that reached for her. Her eyes refused to meet his. Refused to meet Spike's. Instead, she merely stared at the blade she'd shoved through her first love's body. Light flashed and the air cracked. Her feet carried her back and her eyes didn't waver. She sensed the vortex of Acathla's mouth growing wider, but not wide enough to touch her. Not wide enough to touch Spike. There was only Angel. Reaching for her. Saying her name. Standing there without his memories, and knowing only that she was supposed to love him.

Then he was gone. Acathla's mouth closed and the ethereal lights blinked away, and he was gone.

The air fell silent. Buffy fell to her knees and stared.

She had no grasp of how much time passed. How long she remained on the floor, her hands in her lap, her eyes focused forward. Her heart was beating somehow, and the blood from her wound had stopped flowing. She didn't register movement until Spike's gentle hand brushed her shoulder. Until the solitude of her surroundings burst with clarity.

"Buffy?"

The welcome tenor of his voice washed over her like a personal baptism. Buffy blinked and realized for the first time she'd been crying. Crying silent tears. When she looked up, she found herself awash in compassion unlike anything she'd ever known. And in that second, she yearned for his arms like she'd never yearned for anything.

"Buffy, love…" Spike knelt beside her, his hand stroking the length of her arm with a feather-light strokes. "Sweetheart…"

She didn't look at him. She wanted to but every muscle in her body was locked.

"I'll take you away, Buffy. Anywhere. Anywhere you want." His lips brushed her brow. "You shouldn't stay here. You—"

Suddenly she was given the power to nod, and she seized it fiercely. "Yes," she whispered, barely hearing herself. "Yes."

It was the last thing she heard before the tidal wave inside came crashing down, and she collapsed in tears.

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: This chapter containts explicit adult content. Proceed with caution.**

**A/N:** This was a chapter one of my betas was asking me about for a long, long time. I really hope it was worth the wait.

Thanks to Megan, Mari, Tami, and Jenny for looking over this for me. And of course, thank you everyone for sticking this out with me. bounce

**Chapter 14**

The hum of the Desoto kept him company along the lonely stretch of highway. There was rarely heavy traffic in and out of Sunnydale, and he was glad. The faster he got the Slayer away from the Hellmouth the better. Now in the aftermath, he didn't care to ever see the pissant town again.

For her part, Buffy sat silently in the passenger seat. He thought she'd nodded off, but every time he hazarded a glance her way, he found her eyes focused with frightening intensity on the endless stretch of black pavement ahead. God, what he wouldn't give to know what she was thinking.

If she was still with him at all.

Spike sighed, a very cold shiver racing through his body. He didn't want to think about what had happened at the mansion. He didn't want to think of the agony on Buffy's face, or the way she'd looked at Angel like he was her personal fucking savior the sodding second the big git's soul was stuffed up his arse. It was a hell of a time to be jealous, but dammit, he couldn't help himself. In a blink he'd witnessed and suffered through a century of déjà vu. The women in his life—the dark sorceress of his past and the golden goddess of his future—falling over themselves to be with Angel, no matter the incarnation. All Angel had to do was gasp her name and Buffy was in his arms. As though the past few months Angelus had spent terrorizing her were so easily pardonable. As though her budding relationship with Spike meant nothing at all.

The only thing keeping him cool was the look he'd seen flash across her eyes. It wasn't the look of a woman returning to an old lover; it was as though, for a few seconds, the past few days hadn't occurred at all. As though Angelus's regime of Sunnydale had never existed; as though someone had hit the rewind button on some cosmic remote, sending them back to a place where Buffy wouldn't know to care for Spike. Where Buffy only had eyes for Angel. In that second, he'd known it wasn't her steering. It was a shadow of herself. It was the girl who'd lived before her virginity was stolen by a monster.

The Slayer he knew—the girl he loved—had slowly returned to herself once her eyes locked with his. It hadn't been immediate, and it hadn't stopped her from kissing Angel with the lips that belonged to Spike, but he'd seen her withdrawal. The lovesick look vanished with conviction, and while the pain on her face never abated, he knew she'd come back to him.

Spike wasn't a fool. While he'd entertained the idea of Buffy's love for the wanker ending as quickly as his for Drusilla had, he knew it was different for her. Buffy was young. She was so young and she'd been through so much; for her, this was all she'd known. She didn't have decades of experience in her past. She knew what she'd been handed. Now another door of her life was closing and she didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to react.

He could relate. He'd be lost as all bugger were it not for her. And yet here he was. Speeding to Los Angeles as though the flames of Hell were licking his rear bumper.

Things were different for him; he was in love. He was in love with the woman sitting in the passenger seat. Because of Buffy, the pain of his sire's attack quelled to nothing more than a gentle hum.

The pain of the love in Buffy's eyes—the love that hadn't been aimed at him—would render him dust if he didn't stop thinking about it.

_Let it go. She's with you, isn't she? _

Sure, because he wasn't dead. She wouldn't be with him if Angelus hadn't yanked the bloody sword out of the over-sized gargoyle. No, she'd be with her honey. Cuddled up and making kissy-face and crying a thousand tears over a thousand apologies.

Logically, Spike knew it wasn't true. But it _could_ be true, and that was what killed him.

"You hungry, pet?" he asked before he could stop himself. The silence between them was unnerving. He longed to hear her voice. "'m sure there's a grease-infested fast-food joint 'round here somewhere."

He didn't expect a response, and was surprised when Buffy's eyes broke from the road, her head tilting in his direction. "I wouldn't say no," she replied.

A thin smile crossed his lips and he nodded. "Right," he drawled, veering the Desoto to the right-lane. They'd passed a sign denoting an impending exit-ramp a few minutes before, and while his attention was mostly engaged with the hurting slayer at his side, he didn't think he was so foregone as to have missed the exit without noticing.

He was right. In a matter of careless seconds, they were cruising through a strip of various fast-food restaurants and lodging options, nearly all of the latter declaring free rooms. He didn't know if Buffy was in the mood to stop yet; if they'd gotten far enough away from Sunnydale. He hadn't paid too much attention to the mileage signs, but he guessed they were in the outskirts of Los Angeles. Or the outskirts of the outskirts of Los Angeles. The town seemed to double in size every time he visited.

"Name your poison, love," he offered conversationally, careful not to incline his head in her direction.

"I don't care."

"Only sodding place open this late is _Denny's."_ At least, it was the only place he'd be willing to take her right now. The bustling nightlife of southern California wasn't exactly the antidote to Buffy's sorrow. He didn't want to make things worse by degrading her goodness with the filth only thriving metropolises could provide.

Buffy offered a half shrug. "Then _Denny's_ it is."

Spike inhaled sharply and nodded, flicking on his blinker and swerving into the indicated parking lot. He didn't know if she wanted to go in or order grub to go, but this was one instance where he was willing to sacrifice her desires for her needs. They'd been driving a while now and she hadn't slept a wink. There was no harm in a breather.

"Want to just park here tonight?" he asked, attempting to keep his tone light.

"Where are we?"

"Jus' outside LA, I'd reckon. Maybe an hour or so."

Buffy seemed to ponder this, worrying a lip between her teeth. Her eyes were drooping, large circles arcing under either lid. "We didn't get very far," she said reasonably.

"We din't start till a few hours ago." They hadn't left Sunnydale immediately; rather, after Buffy's breakdown in the mansion, he'd resigned himself to the fact that her decision making skills were likely a little fried by everything that had occurred. They'd returned to his room in the Sunnydale Inn, which had been left untouched by housekeeping. There was still a sizeable bloodstain on the far wall, and a trail of red leading to the loo.

The visual alone had made his gut ache. The bleeding from Angelus's cut had stopped soon enough, but there wasn't a bone in his body left unscathed. He was worn and tired, thirsty for blood, and so worried about Buffy he was afraid he'd collapse before she did. As it was, Buffy had fallen into bed without a blink, where she hadn't slept, rather reclined and waited for nightfall.

When evening came and Buffy reiterated her desire to leave town, Spike hadn't hesitated. And now here they were—a few hours down the road from Sunnydale, contemplating a cholesterol-heavy menu in a joint no self-respecting demon would frequent. Buffy hadn't eaten since yesterday; since the poptart she'd barely touched and the orange juice she'd ingested under protest. Her stomach had been growling at him for hours but he hadn't wanted to mention it. Now he was wishing he had.

There was no good way to approach situations like these. He was howling inside, screaming at the injustice of not owning her heart when she possessed every unbeating inch of his. Loving her had buggered his plans and good, but for Chrissake, he couldn't stop. The vacancy in her eyes crippled him.

What was she thinking? Had she made a mistake? Did she regret leaving with him? Did she regret the kisses they'd shared? Did she wish…

He was going to drive himself batty if his mind didn't mute. All that really mattered right now—really mattered—was Buffy. His feelings and bruised heart were secondary concerns. Buffy hadn't promised him rot, except that she couldn't off him. She'd only kissed him of her own volition once to his memory. Everything thus far had been entirely one-sided—she might like him, yes, but she'd never pretended to love him. She'd never pretended there would be something beyond their forbidden kisses after the big battle was behind them.

Angel was dead. Angel was dead because of Buffy, and he'd died without knowing why. He'd died just seconds after professing his love for her. Any reasonable bloke could understand why she wasn't chatty.

"Wanna brave the flapjacks?" he asked, looking at the menu but not reading it. "Fried cake with liquid sugar on top. Sounds tasty, doesn' it?"

"I guess."

She wasn't reading the menu either.

A voluptuous woman with frizzy red hair and a name-tag labeling her as _Margo_ approached the table a few minutes later. She made sure to thrust her triple-Ds into Spike's face, either not registering his wince or not caring. "Can I get somethin' to drink for you, dahlin'?" There was a pronounced Texan twang in her voice.

Spike's eyes unwittingly landed on the throbbing vein in her neck. "Coffee," he said shortly, dragging his gaze away and ignoring the hungry sting of his fangs. "Black." He turned to Buffy. "Sweetheart?"

"Diet coke."

"Ya'll ready to order?"

Spike kept his eyes on Buffy, who nodded. "Sure thing," he replied. "Number three, heavy on the bacon."

Margo jotted down the order and favored him a wink. "I love a man with a healthy appetite."

His eyes narrowed and he nodded pointedly to his travel companion. "The lady hasn't ordered yet."

To her credit, the big-breasted server didn't bat an eye. She nodded and turned to Buffy, pen ready. "What'll it be, sugar?"

"Veggie omelet."

"An' a side of flapjacks." At the Slayer's questioning look, Spike shrugged a shoulder and clarified, "We'll be on the road all day tomorrow, pet. Might as well eat your fill."

"Oh, that's sweet!" Margo gushed. "Ya'll taking a road trip?"

"Why don' you jus' bring me an' the lady our drinks?"

He didn't miss the flash of hurt across the waitress's face, but he didn't care. Instead, he turned back to Buffy and reached for her hand without thinking. The feel of her skin beneath his fingers sent an electric shock through his body. "You all right?"

It was a bloody stupid question but he couldn't help himself.

"I don't know how to answer that," she replied with a soft smile which didn't reach her tired eyes. "Suffice to say, _no_ sums it up pretty well."

A pang struck his heart. "'m sorry, love…I din't…I wasn't thinking."

Buffy nodded but didn't reply. She didn't say anything for a long time. Long after Margo returned with their drinks, and again a few minutes later with their respective orders. They ate in silence for what felt like forever. It nearly startled him out of his bloody skin when she spoke again.

A vamp being startled by a girl's voice. He was truly pathetic.

"Do you think she meant it?"

Spike blinked uselessly, a forkful of sausage suspended between his mouth and his plate. "Huss'at?"

"My mother. Do you think she meant it?" Buffy's eyes were trained on her plate, playing idly with her omelet. She'd gobbled down the flapjacks in less than two minutes. "Do you think…she told me…"

Spike stilled, unsure how to proceed. She hadn't mentioned anything about her mother's decision to boot her from the house since before Angelus found himself stuffed with soul again. Since before they raided the mansion. "I dunno, love," he replied honestly. "Tempers were runnin' high." He paused. "Do you…do you wanna head back an' talk to her? See if…she's more inclined to listen now?"

Buffy was quiet so long he began to wonder if she heard him at all. Ultimately, she shook her head and replied, "No."

"No?" Spike arched a brow and popped the bite of sausage into his mouth. "Jus' like that?"

"Just like that." She glanced up again, her eyes shining. "I can't go back there."

"You need some time."

He hoped she would seize his observation and either rebuke or affirm it, but she did not. Instead, Buffy finished her omelet and wiped her mouth delicately. She drank her cola and the refill Margo provided without needing to be asked. Spike cleaned his plate as well, and though his demon was hardly appeased by the lack of blood in the processed meat he shoveled into his mouth, his stomach was momentarily satisfied.

Margo approached again with the bill, all signs of southern hospitality having long abandoned her eyes. She didn't jiggle her breasts for Spike when she slipped him the check, and he was glad. There were some women on which big breasts simply weren't flattering, and Margo was definitely one of them.

At any rate, it was hard to ogle large knockers when the ones he wanted in his hands and mouth were just the size to occupy either or both desired destinations. All the while he couldn't help his eyes from wandering down the length of Buffy's throat until he was staring at her chest. Just two days ago, it wasn't hard to imagine cradling the soft weight of her in his palms, stroking her nipples with his eager fingers. Now everything had changed. Now Buffy's mind wasn't with him. He was fortunate enough that her body was.

"Do you wanna keep drivin'?" he asked at the register as he handed the cashier a twenty. "We can go as far as you want."

"Sunlight?"

Spike smiled thinly. He had a canister of black gunk he could smear across the windshield if need be. He seemed to remember telling her as much, but decided not to dwell on it. "Poses no problem, sweetling. We'll drive as long as you like."

Buffy seemed to mull it over, not questioning his assertion that their journey could continue beyond dawn. "No," she replied at last. "No."

"Wanna motel?"

She nodded and curled herself into his side. Spike inhaled sharply and willed his body to keep from stirring at her proximity. Still, he couldn't keep his heart from warming with hope. It was the most she'd done to assert contact between them since the mansion. She hadn't recoiled from his tentative touches but she certainly hadn't returned them. Now she was purposefully pressed against him, her head finding his shoulder as his arm closed around her. He had no bloody idea what she was playing at, or if she was fully aware of her actions. All he knew was that she'd made the prospect of motel hunting both immeasurably important and incredibly dangerous.

Not if she didn't want to be touched. With less than twenty-four hours between them and the mansion, his hands were aching to wander across her body. To make sure she wasn't hurt physically, even if her heart was bleeding. Moreover, the taste of her blood was still prominent in his mouth. His demon was roaring for completion; he craved the touch of the woman he loved. Craved the silky hot feel of her pussy clamped around his cock. Craved things he felt now he had no right to want.

"Ya'll come back now!" Margo chimed with saccharine sincerity as Spike steered Buffy into the parking lot. He flashed her a disarming smile and made a point of brushing his lips across his girl's brow.

Perhaps he'd be back later tonight. His demon's thirst had yet to be quenched, and Margo's neck looked mighty juicy.

The thought, at least, provided a moment of pleasure. He directed Buffy to the car and helped her into her seat. Across the street was a Super 8, and he supposed it was as good a place as any for the night.

He just hoped that rest and morning light would clear the fog in his slayer's eyes.

* * *

"We have the room all day tomorrow," Spike said conversationally, though the strain in his voice was pronounced. He locked the door and tossed the room keys onto the table that sat on his left. Buffy stood several feet away at the foot of the bed, her back to him. She hadn't said anything since the restaurant. "An' if you wanna stay longer, jus' say the word."

Buffy inhaled sharply and nodded.

"Sweetheart?" Spike sighed and took several steps forward, stopping when he was all but pressed against her, his chest at her back. "Buffy…talk to me."

She didn't say anything. His hands closed around her upper arms, and before he could stop himself, he'd inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair. God, there was nothing about her that didn't tempt him. Just standing here—holding her but not—and he was a man lost. He'd left Drusilla for this; for the simplicity of being with the woman he loved. True, he'd left Dru for a number of reasons, one of which being his rather reasonable problem with women who nailed him to walls, but he knew he'd be here with Buffy regardless of the way his relationship with Dru fell apart.

He loved her. He loved her so bloody much.

"Buffy please…" Spike's mouth dropped to her shoulder unwittingly. "Please talk to me, baby. Please…"

He knew he was asking for it. Suppose she did start talking; suppose she broke down about how much she loved Angel and how she'd never heal from shoving him ass-first into Hell. It'd break him completely. It'd leave him in ruins. But God, he couldn't stop. He couldn't help himself. Not when he needed to touch her so badly. Not when the accumulation of the past few days was pushing past the last barrier. He'd promised her and himself it wouldn't be over with the ending of Angelus. And standing with the curve of her ass pressed against his crotch, with her scent flooding his nostrils, the last logical strain of knowledge was dangerously close to snapping.

"Please…"

Then something happened. Something which changed everything. Before he could blink in surprise, Buffy twisted in his arms, cupped his cheeks, and dragged his mouth to hers. Warmth exploded and stars fell—her tongue pushing past his lips as his senses exploded with her taste. And that was it. He was an evil bloke. Pure evil. And the woman he wanted was growling into his mouth, shoving his duster to the ground and scraping his lips with her teeth.

_Christ._ What did she want from him? He wasn't a fucking saint. He thought he covered as much with the _evil_ thing. But God help him, her heavenly scent was thick in the air, tickling his nostrils and making his mouth water. Her body was open to him at long last, arousal pumping her veins and need stretching every move she made. And if he answered her—if he gave her what she was suddenly screaming for, there would be no going back.

"Buffy—"

"Shut up," she barked, raking his shirt over his head before turning her hands to her own top. "Just shut up, Spike."

Objection flared within him, but God, he couldn't help himself. His avaricious eyes immediately landed on her lace-clad breasts, the rose protrusions of her delectable nipples silently begging for his mouth. Spike swallowed hard and licked his lips, a disobedient hand reaching to palm one of her ripe breasts before he could help himself.

"Buffy," he choked, his dick painfully hard and straining against the denim of his trousers. "Oh fuck."

"Yes," she agreed breathlessly, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. And then the flimsy garment fell away, and he was staring at her naked tits for the first time. His mouth watered and his cock strained. She was even more perfect than he'd envisioned. Golden and curvy and mouthwateringly delicious. All woman. This little creature was all woman. Her breasts were the perfect bloody handful; he wanted to feel her skin against his, he wanted to suck her nipples into his mouth. He wanted to do everything at once and it left him paralyzed with astonishment.

One would think a hundred years of living would have left him jaded when it came to the female body. But the only other woman he'd ever fucked was Dru. Dru was cold. Buffy was hot. Dru was pencil-thin. Buffy was shapely and athletic, hard where a woman should be hard and soft where a woman should be soft. Dru was pale and fragile. Buffy was sun-kissed and courageous. Buffy was Dru's antithesis, and perhaps that was why he loved her so much. She was everything he'd ever wanted while thinking he only deserved what he'd been given. He'd never wanted for anything else while at Dru's side, but staring at Buffy's body he couldn't help but feel like he'd finally surfaced from Plato's cave. He'd never mistake shadows on the wall for the real thing again. How could he? How could he now that he'd seen perfection?

"Touch me," Buffy said with boldness that surprised him.

No need to tell him twice. Spike all but lurched forward at her invitation, closing his right arm around her middle, his other hand wrapping around her perfect, weighty flesh as his head dove for her other breast. He licked a wet path around her nipple, drumming the perfect nubbin with his tongue until he wrangled a truly feminine moan from her perfect lips. Spike grinned and swallowed her flesh whole, worshipping her breasts with his amorous mouth and growling into her skin. Christ, she tasted so good. He'd wanted to taste her like this forever—like this and in so many other ways. The rich, womanly aroma tickling his nose beckoned his mouth like a siren. He wanted to bury his face between her legs and inhale her completely. He wanted her flavor in his mouth and her moans in his ears. He wanted her thrusting against him with desperation only he could quell. He wanted—in that second—everything.

Buffy wove her fingers through his hair and clutched him to her breast, whimpering helplessly. "Spike," she whispered, arching her hips against his. "_Please." _

All thought of going slow or providing her with an exit abandoned him without warning. He couldn't see but for the need splitting his insides. "You wanna be fucked, little girl?" he growled, his hand releasing her breast to cup her ass completely as he angled her into the frantic thrusts of his hips. "Wanna feel my cock inside that juicy quim of yours?"

Buffy mewled and nodded, her glassy eyes finding his before her hands dropped to the waistband of his jeans.

"You know how bad I want you, don't you?" He fisted her sweats, grateful for the first time that she hadn't adorned herself with a pair of designer jeans before leaving her home. The unimpeded fragrance of purely woman slayer had teased him mercilessly for the duration of the drive. Now he couldn't be happier with her wardrobe; he didn't have to bother with a fly; it was only a matter of seconds before her legs were free and the only thing keeping him from her drenched pussy was a thin strip of cotton. "You know what you've done to me from the very bloody beginnin'."

"Spike…"

"You've known how often I laid awake at night, pullin' at my dick an' wishing it was you." He turned his hands to the clasp of his jeans. "Wishing you were—"

His words were rewarded with a fresh wave of desire; it exuded from her. Her flushed face. Her small gasps. The way she clenched her thighs. The hazy look clouding her gaze. God yes, she was aching for this as much as he was. "Spike," she whispered again, but she didn't say anything else. She blinked with innocence which betrayed her. Her eyes were large saucers. A man could lose himself in those eyes—in the tumultuous storm raging within those endless depths. God knew he had.

"What?" she asked. He'd thought she'd be the type to attempt to shield her nudity, but her arms remained at her sides. Her glorious body was bare for his perusal, and Christ, it was impossible to look his fill.

The previous litany of crude references to how much he'd wanted her abandoned him. In a blink he was overwhelmed by her beauty. "You're so gorgeous." Words were cheap—she wasn't just gorgeous; she was radiant. She was magnificent. Just knowing her luscious body was his—his to touch, his to fuck, his to cherish—made the demon growl in delight. He would never let her stray. After tonight, there was no going back. There was no returning to any embodiment of the way things had once been between them. Once he'd tasted her, he wasn't letting her go.

_Mine. _

The demon snarled again in approval. Yes, she would be his. Spike licked his lips and raked his eyes down her body, focusing intently on the damp material clinging to her quim. "Take your knickers off," he said slowly, popping the button of his jeans with measured intent. "I wanna see that delectable pussy of yours."

Buffy stiffened but the air exploded with another wave of arousal. She was dripping for him, and he couldn't wait to taste her honey. And while he saw defiance flash in her emerald eyes, it didn't stop her hands—trembling now, much to his satisfaction—from seizing either side of her panties and slowly dragging them down her legs. His eyes followed the progression greedily, his own hands stripping himself of his jeans. He enjoyed the widening of her gaze as her eyes followed the enthusiastic bounce of his cock, almost as much as he enjoyed the breath she inhaled and the shimmer of juices along her inner thighs. Her pussy remained closed to him; he wanted to see her on her back with her legs spread. He wanted her to open up—to let his fingers and tongue explore every crevice of her womanly secrets. He wanted to taste everything.

And just like that, they were both naked. They were naked together for the first time. The knowledge was positively intoxicating.

If he were a gentleman, Spike reasoned as he took a pronounced step toward her, he would allow her one last out. One last escape hatch. One last chance to end the dance before it began. If he were a gentleman, he would remember the freshness of her loss and the soreness of her heart, and recognize a good rutting was likely not the antidote. But with Buffy standing before him, naked as the world had born her, he could not claim himself to be a gentleman. No, at that moment, he was very much a demon. A sinner. A creature of the devil who wanted nothing more than to devour her every inch.

Moreover, he was a man in love—a man in love who wanted to worship the woman he loved with his body. He craved her pussy like he'd never craved anything. He wanted to make her forget everything—Angel, her mother, the apocalypse, everything.

He wanted to make her love him.

"Spike?"

There was only question in her tone. The resounding echo of a girl too lost to be found. And if he allowed her a moment too long of introspection, he feared her sudden rush of bravado would vanish and he wasn't strong enough to relinquish the promise of her touch.

"Back up," he growled before he could stop himself, gesturing to the piece of furniture which housed the motel's television set. There was a good two feet of space to the television's left—providing her scrumptious arse with more than enough wiggle room. "Sit."

"You're not in control here," she fired back, though her voice was shaking.

"No?"

"I want—"

"An' you'll get what you want. Lord knows I've wanted it long enough." Spike wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked himself unabashedly for her widening eyes. "I want your pussy around me so bloody badly. I wanna taste every sodding inch. I wanna fuck you till you can't stand." He broke forward for her without a second thought, shoving her onto the stand and spreading her legs with his free hand. "You want me here, don' you?" he rasped, uncaring he was repeating himself, his eager fingers parting her slick vaginal lips, drunk instantly when her honey ran onto his skin. "You want me to fuck your brains out."

Buffy sobbed and bucked against his hand, nodding desperately. "Yes," she whispered, shuddering hard as though the word scandalized her. "Make me forget."

Rage split through his body without warning and he didn't know why. The head of his cock rubbed the length of her sopping hole, slathering him with her juices and driving him out of his bloody mind. "You wanna forget?" he snarled. "You want me to fuck his memory right out of you?"

Buffy's eyes flashed and she met his with crippling understanding. "Spike—"

He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to see her awareness. Didn't want her to see the hurt she caused without knowing it.

She wanted to forget Angel.

By God, he'd make her forget.

Spike snarled and smashed his lips to hers, slamming his cock so deep inside her light exploded behind his eyes and he saw stars. He was suffocating in heat—surrounded by liquid velvet and squeezed so tight it was a wonder he could feel his dick at all. White hot pleasure crashed over every plane of his body. It was the most perfectly bittersweet moment of his life. He knew all at once he'd sold himself forever—he'd given into temptation and made himself more an addict for her. And in doing so, he'd lost her completely.

Knowing it didn't slow his body down. Too soon he was sliding out of her pussy and slamming in again. Her body rocked hard against his, a heady gasp tearing through her throat as her lips tore from his and her head flew back. "Oh my God."

"That's right," Spike growled, unable to quell his fury. Whether at Buffy or himself, he didn't know, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter. Logic intervened and told him plainly he had no right to be angry with her. Again, she'd asked for nothing. Nothing but a good fuck, which he could give her. Which he would give her over and over if it was what she wanted.

She was so tight. He'd never known a woman this tight.

She was tight because this was only her second time with a man. Her virginity had been intact not too long ago, and she'd given it to her precious Angel.

Spike roared, his neck snapping back, his hips pounding into hers hard enough to hurt. He wasn't being careful and he knew he ought to be, but he couldn't help himself. "Look at me," he growled, seizing her cheeks and leveling her eyes with his. He was rocking against her with fierceness which almost terrified him. His cock pierced her soft flesh with ruthless intensity, dipping into her pussy over and over again so hard it was a wonder the wooden surface on which she sat hadn't cracked beneath her. "Is this what you wanted?" he growled.

Buffy sobbed and nodded.

"Then _look at me."_ He bit at her lips furiously, possessively, marking her body for all she was worth. "I'm not him, Buffy. I'm _not." _

"I know." To her credit, her eyes didn't waver from his. Their eyes locked and held, mingled pants lingering between them, his cock sliding between her soaking flesh, stroking her innermost parts as her molten walls molded around him. "Unh…Spike…"

It was all it took to melt his hard façade. Spike found his anger fading away, soaking her in and realizing for the first time this was truly happening. The dream wasn't dissolving into a slow awake. Her heat was singing his skin, her small, timely gasps only serving to forward the eagerness of his thrusts. He loved the way her breasts flattened against his chest. He loved the way her body rocked with the sharp drive of his hips. He loved the 'O' her perfect lips formed, the cloudy haze storming her eyes, the way she gasped every time his cock sank inside her warm depths. She was perfection—she was going to burn him up and bugger if he cared.

"Oh Buffy," he moaned, his eyes rolling back, fingers digging into her hips. "You're so warm."

"Nnuah," she offered ineloquently, her hips attempting to meet his every thrust, even from her slightly disadvantageous position atop the television-stand.

"You're so _fucking_ warm. Christ, you feel good." Spike's mouth dipped to nip at her throat, slapping against her hard. "So…so bloody good." He licked his way back to her lips, capturing her in a needy, desperate kiss. He needed her taste in his mouth. Needed her tongue entwined with his. "I've wanted you so much."

Buffy mewled in protest.

"Wanted you…" Spike kissed her again, pressing his brow to hers. "Look at us, baby. Look at us." His eyes were glued to the mesmeric sight of his cock, glistening with her juices, pushing rhythmically into her pussy. "Look at how well we move together."

He felt her tremble beneath his fingers. Undoubtedly she'd never seen anything like what he was showing her, even if she had had sex before. Angel would've been a sodding prude; he wouldn't have wanted her focused on their bodies as much, when in actuality, the union of their bodies was bloody glorious and not something to be disregarded as sloppy or sinful.

Though perhaps that was the _lack of a soul_ thing talking; he just didn't understand the human tendency to demonize an act so natural it was the very method by which life was created. Pleasure was similarly forbidden—and for the pleasure waving through him with every thrust, there was no question whether or not he would ultimately end up in Hell.

Perhaps his ultimate sin would be dragging Buffy with him. One glance at their thrusting bodies, and she couldn't stop staring. Her eyes were glued to his cock, to the way her flesh folded around him, her pussy welcoming him with every plunge. "Ohhh…" she whimpered, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. "Spike—"

His eyes widened and his hips bucked madly against her. God, she had no idea what she was playing at. "Buffy!"

Then something happened that he couldn't have predicted. Her hands found the smooth planes of his chest and before he could blink, he'd been shoved clean out of her body, cock bouncing against his stomach as his legs hit the edge of the bed. And before he could raise his voice in protest—though to scream or whimper he didn't know—Buffy shoved him onto the mattress completely and straddled his waist, her eyes gleaming with intent.

Spike inhaled sharply, his chest heaving with breaths he knew he didn't need. He'd never breathed so much as he had around her. "Buffy—"

"I don't _want_ you to be him," she growled, and though it was a belated reaction to an earlier assertion, it hadn't lost its punch. "I just want you to fuck me."

The word smacked him hard. In Buffy's voice, it sounded so raw, so taboo—it was a word he never thought he'd hear her say. Not in anger. Not in bed. Not in anything. And for the life of him, he didn't know if he was pleased or distressed.

As for the implications surrounding the word in question, his mind closed and refused to consider it. Buffy had his cheeks in her hands the next instant and was ravaging his lips with hers as he slid a hand between them to position his cock at her sopping hole once more.

Then she sank down and the stars exploded. Spike's jaws fell slack, a strangled moan catching in his throat. Holy fuck, she was such a goddess. A warm, wanton goddess. Her pussy clamped hard around him, sucking him so deeply into her he truly understood the old adage of not knowing where he ended and she began. She was soaking; God, she was perfect. And he'd dust before letting her go.

"Buffy," he gasped, his fingers digging into her thighs. But she didn't say anything. She didn't have to; her body did all the talking.

The sight of her lifting off his aching cock only to welcome him back into her wet heat was mesmerizing. He could watch himself sink inside her pussy all bloody night. He was completely split apart; bliss ripping through his body and burning every black stain marring his past into a euphoric baptism of absolution. Buffy's head rolled back, and he felt her stretching around him, her body adjusting to the heady strain of control. Spike was certain she'd never steered before, and knowing he could provide at least one first—one thing no one else had shared with her or ever would—sent a purely masculine jolt of pride through his pleasure-riddled bones.

"Oh yeah," he growled, licking his lips as his eyes flicked from the wet-suction of her pussy swallowing him to the bounce of her small, perfect breasts. He tightened his hold on her thighs, arching his hips upward every time her vaginal walls pulled on the skin of his dick. "You're burnin' me up, baby."

Buffy moaned and bit her lip, her right hand closing over her breast. The ecstasy crashing over her face shook him with gut-tightening awareness; it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. Buffy teased her nipple as she bounced mercilessly on his cock, moaning unintelligible words which sounded like his name but could have just as easily been a number of things. Spike clenched his jaw, his balls tightening as he reigned in control—pressure built and warred for supremacy, but while he longed for release, there was nothing stronger than his need to prolong this moment. This wonderful _first-time_ inside Buffy.

"You love this, don' you, you dirty minx?" He flashed a grin when her eyes shot open. "You love riding me."

Her lips parted, heat crashing over her face. The thrusts of her hips became more demanding, as though to answer him with her body if not her words. "Guh," she managed to cry. And that one little nonsensical word meant more to him than anything she could have otherwise conveyed.

"You love driving my cock into that sweet li'l cunny of yours." Without warning, Spike hauled himself off the bed, pressing a hand to the curve of her ass and subtly encouraging her to keep bouncing, even as he speared himself deeper inside her. "You feel that, Slayer?" he whispered when his mouth was at her ear, her nipples rubbing his chest and driving him out of his sodding mind—though from the feel of her or the heady moans reverberating through her body, he didn't know. "You feel how your juicy li'l pussy sucks me right bloody back inside you every time you—"

"Oh God!"

"Fuck yes." Spike covered his mouth with hers and flipped her onto her back, consuming her whimper when the move jerked him hard inside her. "I love the way you feel."

"Spike…" Her nails scratched at his shoulders, her legs wrapping instinctively around him as he began to pound into her. She was so soft. So soft and warm and wet and _his._ God, she was his. He was going fuck Angel's name right out of her vocabulary. Never again would he find himself standing across the room from the woman he loved as she wrapped herself in another bloke's embrace.

_Never. _

Jealousy split him again and Spike roared before he could help himself. He knew he had no right—the git was dead and the matter was done with, but he couldn't stand the idea of competing with his grandsire's ghost. He intended to keep Buffy forever. _Forever. _He didn't want to worry about who she saw when she slept. If she was thinking about someone else when he touched her. He wanted her with him. Always. _Always. _

He fisted a handful of her hair and tilted her head back. "Look at me," he growled over the noisy slaps of their bodies.

Buffy's eyes were wide but void of fear, and she didn't question him. Instead, she merely held his gaze, her hips arching off the bed in time with his desperate thrusts.

"My name. Say it."

There wasn't a second of hesitation. "Spike."

"Who's fucking you, Slayer?"

"Spike…"

He sighed hard and dipped his head, nipping at her lips with his teeth before consuming her in another desperate kiss. He mauled her tongue with his, sucking her so deeply into his mouth he'd be tasting her for weeks. And that was just the way he wanted it. He would make it his prerogative to never awake without Buffy in his mouth ever again.

"Feel so good," he murmured when their lips parted, brushing a kiss over her cheek with a sudden rush of gentleness. He released her hair and scaled his hand south, slipping between their thrusting bodies and finding her clit with a purr of satisfaction. Buffy jerked and gasped, arching into his hand, her vaginal walls tightening hard around his cock.

"Ohhh!" she cried. "What…what are you…"

"Wanna feel you come. Drench me, baby. Lemme feel it."

"Oh! Oh my _GOD!" _

Then she was squeezing him with intensity he'd never felt before. Squeezing him with muscles he didn't know existed. Squeezing him with desperation unlike anything he'd experienced, as though attempting to lock him inside her with each slippery slide from her wet pussy. As though to make it impossible for their bodies to ever part. And every wonderful squeeze had his eyes crossing and tortured growls ripping off his lips. Spike pinched her clit and howled, the pads of his fingers quickly setting to rub her out of her mind. His fingers were wet. His balls ached. Buffy was thrashing and mewling beneath him and reason blinked out the window.

He needed her. He needed this to be forever.

He needed to ensure she never left him. Not for a second. Dru's infidelity had hurt, but Buffy leaving him would render him dust. He couldn't let her go. Not now. Not ever.

And as his demon finally roared free, fangs descending as his blue eyes glowed amber, he knew what he needed to do. He knew.

He needed to make her his.

Thus before he could stop himself, Spike buried his face in the crook of her neck, his incisors piercing her flesh, and as the warm ambrosia of her blood flowed into his mouth, he knew he'd arrived home.

Buffy screamed and clenched hard around him, soaking his cock as her body exploded into a series of spasms that had him spilling himself inside her the next second. It was the purest release he'd ever known. Thrusting hips determined to take as much of her as she'd give him, her blood bathing his tongue and the singularity of intent clearing his mind.

"Mine," he growled against her flesh. "You're mine, Buffy."

She sobbed in pleasure. "Yes. Oh God, yes."

The skies parted and something within him locked. And when he realized what had happened—when the fog faded and reality set in—he found himself battling tears. _His. _Oh God, it was final. She'd said yes. She'd told him yes. He'd asserted a claim on her and she'd agreed. Buffy was his. She was really his.

There truly was no going back.

"Mine," he said again, this time proudly and not possessively. His long tongue licked at the mark he'd given her, trembling when she did. "God Buffy…you're mine now."

There was nothing for a long minute.

"No," she whispered, shattering him with alarm a split second before her teeth sank into his shoulder. "You're _mine." _

Spike's eyes fell shut and his already hardening cock grew fully erect in a blink. "Oh yes. Yes."

No sense arguing with the truth. He was hers. He was completely hers. He always had been.

So overwhelmed with belonging, he didn't consider asking her if she knew what had just transpired. Beyond their panting bodies, beyond the fingers at her clit stroking her still as he began thrusting inside her again, the significance of what they'd just done remained in the haze.

_Tomorrow,_ he thought. _We'll talk tomorrow. _

He was too much in need of her to talk now. Tomorrow, when the gritty edge of his desperation was at least fleetingly satisfied, he would tell her.

Right now, he just wanted to make love to her. Over and over and over again.

The rest could wait until tomorrow.

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: This chapter contains explicit sexual content. Please proceed with caution.**

**Chapter 15**

She'd never before awakened in a bed with a man, and the sensation filled her with a devastating rush of warmth and alarm. The arm around her middle tightened almost immediately as though sensing her unease, the chest pressed against her back rumbling a soothing purr as Spike subconsciously drew her nearer to nuzzle her hair. Buffy lay awake for a long time, staring mindlessly into nothing. Trying hard to put to right what had happened last night in the jumbled mess of her mind. What she'd done in the mindless aftermath of complete devastation.

The tears she'd cried weren't for Angel. Not entirely. While she knew she would never forget the betrayal in his eyes or the way his hand had reached for her, she'd reconciled with what she'd done almost immediately. There hadn't been a choice—Angel himself had made sure of that. It was sacrifice Angel or lose the world, and after everything they'd suffered through, the world definitely deserved the most weight.

Angel didn't know why he'd died. Why she'd run him through with a sword. Why she hadn't returned his declaration of love. Why anything which had occurred in the last moments of his life had occurred at all. It was something she couldn't change; something she'd just have to live with. Something she'd done to save the world; something she couldn't regret.

It wasn't losing Angel which had broken her; it was everything. It was this. It was lying in an unfamiliar bed in the suburb of a city which hadn't been her home for two years. A city where she'd left as a child and was returning to as an adult. It was lying in bed beside a man who touched her in ways no man should—her worn, beaten heart was bleeding, and she'd willingly tossed herself into another arena. She was broken all over, and she'd hoped Spike would fix her.

She didn't know why she'd thought sex would make it better. Lying in the calm beside him, the idiocy of her actions glared with unforgiving scrutiny. She'd used him. She'd tapped into the feelings she knew he had for her and used him in order to feel something other than hollow. She'd used him and she was disgusted with herself.

Namely because despite all her efforts, turning off her own feelings was impossible. She'd thought she could ignore what she felt for Spike in the aftermath of something so brutal. She was wrong. God, she was wrong. But that didn't make things better.

No. It made things immeasurably worse.

And she hurt. God, she hurt. She hurt for Spike. For the tender way he cuddled up behind her. For the gentle purrs he released into her hair and the loving way his hands caressed her body, even in sleep. He gave her so much without asking for anything, and while last night had been one of the most explosive nights of her life, her bruised heart was prepared for another crushing blow.

_I can't do this. _

There was nothing left to give. Nothing left in her whatsoever. No want of love to give. No want of love to receive. Nothing but an ugly scar where there had once been warmth—a scar which ached with resounding freshness whenever her treacherous mind wandered into the forbidden territory she'd crossed last night. In everything that had happened, she'd never suspected this would be the fallout. She hadn't known what she'd thought would happen, but complete isolation was about as far down the line as one could feasibly travel.

Spike hadn't been coy in his intentions or desires. Since the beginning, since the sinful kiss they'd shared in the halls of Sunnydale High, he'd been as forward and blunt in his wants as any man she'd ever known. He'd rocked her foundations and wheedled his way into her heart. He'd defied everything she knew about conventional vampires in how _unconventional_ he was. He'd been her friend and confidant when she felt at her loneliest.

She'd wanted him so much before what had happened at the mansion. Before the totality of her loss came crashing down and she realized the consequences of everything which had occurred since she awoke that fateful morning.

She'd lost her home. She'd lost her friends. She'd lost her Watcher. She'd lost her mother. She'd lost her first love. She'd lost everything.

She'd lost everything but Spike, who refused to allow himself to be lost. Spike had rushed her away at her request. Spike hadn't pried her for conversation. Spike had fed her, cared for her, and wouldn't have touched her last night had she not been the one to jump him. Had she not been so desperate to feel something beyond the cold that she was willing to do anything or use anyone in order to fulfill her needs.

Even someone she cared about.

At once, Buffy felt old. Very old. She'd just barely crossed the boundary of her seventeenth birthday and she felt decades had passed overnight. She'd used someone she cared about and there was no taking it back. There was only the hurt she'd cause him in the afterward. The knowledge she had nothing she could give him. Nothing of the words he'd whispered or the caresses he'd given her. There was absolutely nothing.

Sex without love was something she couldn't abide. Not after what she'd had. A part of her had hoped Spike would fuck her cares right out of her, but he hadn't. He couldn't. Instead, he'd been convinced he was fucking Angel out of her when there was no way he could. Not when Angel wasn't the source of her pain. Angel was far removed from her; she hurt for him but not _because_ of him. Not because of what she'd done. Killing Angel was necessary. She'd known it going in, and she knew it now.

It just didn't happen the way she'd wanted it to happen. Losing Angel hadn't crushed her, but it had been the final straw.

And now here she was. Lying beside a man who cared for her—a man she cared for in turn—but there was nothing more between them. Nothing she could part with; nothing her broken soul could entrust into his bloodstained hands. He was a vampire; a vampire whose moral boundaries were about as set as the devil's in paradise. He said he wanted her, and she believed he meant it, but what would his promise be worth in a month? In two months? What would it be worth to him when he realized how broken she was? What would it be worth to him after the excitement was over and it became painfully clear she couldn't stomach being with a man who regarded morality with the same casualness that others might regard the weather.

Spike had whispered pretty words, but pretty words couldn't save her.

Buffy shivered hard and sighed. She knew her conclusion wasn't fair. She knew it, but she couldn't help herself. The bottom line remained: Spike was still a vampire, and no amount of poetry or promises could change his nature. Spike was a very soulless vampire. Spike could destroy her without hurting a hair on her head.

If Spike gave her a reason to kill him as Angel had, she wouldn't survive. And she didn't want to stick around long enough to find out if he would.

There was nothing left in her. Nothing left at all. If she stayed with Spike, she would end up destroying him. She couldn't keep giving her body without giving her heart, and her heart was too battered to be given away. She couldn't trust herself with another vampire, knowing he might one day give her reason to kill him. She couldn't stay with Spike until she was healed because the blackness inside her would rip them both apart.

Buffy sniffed hard and slowly wiggled out of his embrace. She expected the arm around her middle to tighten at the first hint of movement, but Spike offered little more than a yawn and turned over in his sleep. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, wincing when her sore muscles complained under the movement. Her thighs were tender, and her pussy ached. Spike had nearly broken her at first; his anger and outrage at what he thought was holding her back.

Then the night had turned on her, and the fury in his eyes washed into bone-melting awe and wonder. He'd stroked her face with his fingertips, pumping sweetly into her body and whispering words against her lips which would have crushed a lesser woman. He'd claimed her as his own. His fangs had pierced her body and her blood had flown into his mouth. He'd murmured words and proclaimed her as his. She supposed it was the truth.

She did belong to him. She just couldn't have him, and he couldn't have her.

Her vision blurred as she raised herself to trembling legs. She ignored the dull ache attacking her muscles with every step she took, just as she ignored the cold air stinging her skin and the resounding pang which struck her heart the further away from him she walked.

She couldn't stop herself, however, from glancing wistfully over her shoulder at the man she'd left on the bed. Her eyes were soft and her heart was sore; there wasn't an inch of her which didn't hurt.

Somehow, Buffy made it to the bathroom without collapsing. She flipped on the light and winced as her tear-filled eyes blinked in adjustment. A long violent sigh rolled off her shoulders, and before she knew what she was doing, she was standing under the shower nozzle, her face turned upward as water cascaded over her aching body. It always seemed to work in movies. The cleansing power of a good scrub-down. The purity of water to wash away the night's sins. She hoped the dirt and grime staining her flesh would carry with it the weight holding her down, but she received no such satisfaction.

She could bathe and scrub all she liked. Her problems weren't going anywhere. She was still far from home. She was still quaking with the aftermath of Spike's passionate lovemaking. She was still breaking because she knew she wasn't programmed for this. For any of it. For the softness in his eyes or the way he touched her like she was cherished. For feeling like she ought to give him something when she had to keep whatever she had left. Whatever feeling beyond the cold had to be preserved, else she'd truly be left with nothing.

It was because of that, she couldn't stay with him. At all. She couldn't hand herself over to reckless abandon and allow him to fuck her concerns away. She couldn't do last night again. Never again. She couldn't have sex when love wasn't in the equation, and though she felt closer to Spike than anyone, there was no love. There was the want of love, but wishing could not make it so. She couldn't love when she was broken.

And even if she could, one resounding truth refused to waver.

_No more vampires. _

Buffy sniffed again and wiped at her eyes. A useless gesture, of course, but needed nonetheless.

_I can't do this. _

There was no reason to believe Spike would make any of this easy. A part of her had expected him to join her in the shower, and she was not disappointed. Buffy honestly didn't know how much time passed before the shower-curtain rattled and his presence consumed the small space surrounding her. Her body rejoiced even as her heart broke down sobbing again. She stood motionless, facing the showerhead, trembling and waiting for him to make a move.

And God when he moved, the walls came tumbling down. Spike's arms wrapped around her middle, his strong chest flattened against her back. His cock, hard but undemanding, settled provocatively against her ass. And he held her for long minutes without a word.

He was going to crush her. 

"It's all right, kitten," he murmured, and she realized with a start she was crying again. Spike didn't pressure her; didn't ask why or plead with her to stop. She'd seen men come undone at a woman's tears and wasn't sure whether or not to be grateful that he didn't demand she cease sniveling for his benefit. 

It didn't matter; she couldn't stop. It _wasn't_ all right.

"I'll take care of you." His lips innocuously brushed the bite mark he'd given her the night before. The one proclaiming her as his to the world. Buffy trembled and gasped, an unwanted but sorely-needed rush of lust making her already-wobbly knees even weaker. To her surprise, Spike didn't purr in delight. Instead, he merely kissed the mark again and nuzzled his face against the curve of her neck. "I'll take such good care of you."

"Spike," Buffy whimpered, her hand falling to his where it rested against her abdomen. Their fingers intertwined without hesitation. As though this was what they were built for. As though every move was purposefully synchronized, and her body knew it in spite of her head's confusion and her heart's objections. 

His left hand fell from her waist, his right maintaining a possessive, near reverent clasp on hers. Perhaps subconsciously, his hips had begun a seductive dance against her backside, the sensual length of his cock rubbing her ass into a new kind of crazy. She had no idea how it was possible to collapse with desire with her heart and mind at such war—especially with her body sore and overly tender from last night's lovemaking. But God, at the softest touch, her insides liquefied into molten desire. She was at once aching and consumed with need. Wetness slicked the flesh between her thighs. Sparks of arousal had her every fiber blazing. Her conviction, fresh and painful as it was, surged and died. She knew then she wouldn't be able to walk away without one more taste.

Without knowing exactly what she was leaving behind.

Buffy wasn't accustomed to being so easily manipulated. So effortlessly aroused. Not once had Angel left her burning like this. His touches had always warmed her, made her feel precious and cherished, but similarly kept her dressed in pure white without any move to soil the ideal of her untainted innocence. While his kisses had done their part to ignite an inner fire, Angel had never pursued her arousal. Not until the night she gave him her virginity.

Spike didn't just pursue her arousal—he hunted it down. He craved it. He drove her out of her mind and made no small noise about the magnitude of his rejoicing when his pursuit was met with success. Spike wasn't the type to be content simply building a fire. No, he would caress her until her insides were burning, then encourage the flames to a roaring explosion.

The determination housed within her bones began to waver. How was she supposed to think about leaving him when he touched her so lovingly? Her set mind blanked completely as his free hand dipped between her thighs, nimble fingers caressing her tender folds with flippancy which made the strokes seem almost accidental. Raw emotion spread through her body like a disease, and she sagged against him, weakened and powerless to fight.

_Allow me this. God please, allow me this. _

"Are you sore, baby?" Spike asked, sucking her earlobe between his teeth and giving it a seductive tug. "I wasn't exactly gentle with you last night."

Could he feel her indecisiveness? Did he know she was too much of a coward to stick this out? Did he know she was slipping away from him? Did he know she wouldn't be with him this time tomorrow?

Tears threatened to spill down over her cheeks again. Buffy's eyes fell shut and she trembled, her legs spreading in silent welcome for his addictive touch. He didn't question or allow her time to second-guess the invitation; he captured her clit between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth dropping again to the mark on her throat. His arm tightened around her middle when she gasped.

"Answer me," Spike pleaded softly, his voice tight with need. "I want to be inside you so bloody badly, but if it's gonna hurt—"

"I am a little sore," she confessed, regretting the words immediately for the way he inhaled sharply and began to withdraw. The decision she'd made was unmovable—her intentions undeterred. But she'd be damned if she didn't leave him with memories of warmth and tenderness to coincide with the cold solace he'd provided her with the night before. 

She'd need memories of this to keep her warm when she was alone.

"I don' wanna hurt you."

Alarm seized her insides. No, she needed this. She needed him one last time. Before she sent herself into a self-imposed exile, she needed Spike. She needed to know exactly what she was leaving behind. She needed to try and convey everything she didn't want to feel through touch—and in doing so, everything she wanted to give him. "Please."

"Please?" he echoed, his teeth gently scraping the bite mark. "Please what?"

"Please, Spike…"

Spike squeezed her hand and tugged her against him so that her back was resting completely against his chest, her weight supported by his entirely. "Please what?" he echoed. "Hurt you? Sorry, sweetheart, no can do. I'm not angry now. I hurt you enough—"

"You didn't—"

"An' I'm not gonna."

Buffy shook her head, hot sparks blazing across her skin. "Don't hurt," she managed between gasps, coherency mingling with desire. "Just…just love me."

For a second she thought she'd said something to upset him; Spike went rigid, breaths crashing against her wet, trembling flesh and his body quaking so hard against hers she honestly didn't know where he ended and she began. Perhaps she'd gotten ahead of herself—not that it mattered, of course. It wasn't like she was going to see him again. Today would be her last with Spike. She was spiraling down a dark path where even he could not follow. She didn't need any more demons whispering in her ear. She didn't need another vampire lover.

Not when she couldn't allow herself to love him. 

The silence around them broke on a reverent gasp. "Oh Buffy," Spike moaned, twisting her at once in his arms. And the thin veil keeping reality from fantasy shattered; he was there, drowning her in the crystal tide of his endless eyes, preventing her from hiding herself from the veracity of the world around her.

Her heart hammered hard against her chest, making her knees rattle and her bones shake. And when his lips fluttered over hers, a dam inside broke. His kiss was so soft. So tender. His tongue stroked hers, savoring her, his small whimpers rumbling against her mouth. He tasted so good—the perfect embodiment of the ever-proverbial forbidden fruit. Buffy could kiss him forever and not want for anything. He was all male. He was danger personified. Yet in his arms she felt safer than she had in all her life.

It was false security, she knew. The hands which caressed her had caused endless amounts of pain and suffering. How many mothers had wept over dead sons and daughters as a result of these hands? How many husbands had lost their wives? How many children had been left orphaned? How many times had Spike licked his victims' blood off his fingers? How many tears had he left in the past?

Those were the sort of scars which could never be healed. Not with time. Not even with death. And she knew it wasn't really Spike's fault. Spike couldn't be held accountable for being what he was; for doing what was natural to him. She couldn't hate him for being a vampire. But she couldn't lose herself in another killer's arms. She couldn't—not when she was still scrubbing Angel's dust off her skin.

She couldn't risk choking on darkness. Spike had already wormed his way deep into her heart; she hadn't thought of what would come of it in the aftermath of slaying Angel. Perhaps, had Angel not come back in those fateful final seconds, she wouldn't feel this way. She wouldn't have been reminded of the prevailing responsibility on her shoulders. The calling she was fleeing from but could never escape.

Once the emptiness subsided she knew she would have to pick up the pieces. Her sense of duty would return. And if she stayed with Spike now, if she allowed their relationship to deepen even more, and if he one day betrayed her, there would be no recovery.

It was a dangerous supposition, she knew—living her life based on _what ifs. _She didn't like it, but she couldn't trust herself with anything absolute. As long as Spike was a demon he would always be evil. Always. He could promise her the sun and moon and stars and mean every word; it didn't matter. His nature demanded blood and violence. Spike had no ties to her beyond the forged alliance they'd formed over the past few days and the passionate night they had shared together. She'd employed him for solace, and God she hated herself for it.

Vampire or not; she cared for Spike. She truly did. And she hated knowing she'd used him. Even if Spike had known he was being used.

He had, too. He'd known he was being used. Last night it had angered him. He didn't seem angry now.

"You taste so good," Spike murmured into her mouth, hiking her legs around his waist, the head of his cock rubbing along her aching slit. "So warm an' sweet."

Buffy mewled against his lips, thoroughly hating herself. She wanted to shut her mind off completely.

He stroked her clit almost lazily, his mouth breaking from hers to whisper small kisses down her throat. "You're mine, you know," he whispered, his teeth again grazing the bite mark he'd given her. "This here? This makes you mine. Forever."

The words made her stomach tighten but Buffy didn't reply. She merely tightened her arms around him and rubbed herself against his hand.

"Say you're mine, Buffy. Say it again."

Her eyes blinked with new tears. "I'm yours," she said, but the words rode out on a long, strangled sob as his cock sank deep inside her pussy. Her vaginal walls clamped hard around him, her body attempting to suck him in deeper than biology would allow. Tortured bliss spread through her veins. The water hitting her skin had long gone cold, but she didn't care. Between the cold at her back and the cold body of the vampire moving inside her, she was surprised she hadn't melted with heat.

Nothing in her life made sense. Nothing.

"Again," Spike begged, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "Say it. Please, baby…"

Her heart wrenched. "Yours."

Deeper and deeper. Buffy couldn't keep herself from crying. Spike didn't question her. Didn't do anything but caress her face and kiss her lips as his cock slid rhythmically in and out of her body.

She wanted to freeze this moment. To forget the pain ripping her insides apart. To forget the world which defined them by what they were. She would never have this again. This was a moment she would bottle and carry with her. This would be a moment to take with her wherever she went.

Because, with Spike or not, she was his. Somehow she knew she was his.

She just couldn't stay.

"It's all right," Spike murmured, kissing her shoulder. "It's all right."

But it wasn't. It wasn't.

And try as she might, even as he made love to her with his words and his lips and his body, Buffy couldn't stop weeping. She just prayed he didn't look into her eyes. If he did, he'd know immediately this was their last time together. And he'd hate her for it. For using him. For making him believe something. For making him think she could give him something she didn't have.

He'd be within his right to loathe her. God knows she loathed herself enough.

The very thought, however, left her feeling colder than before. And Buffy knew without question that she wouldn't survive it. Even if she never saw him again, she couldn't abide the thought of Spike existing in the world…and hating her.

**TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: This chapter contains explicit sexual content. Please proceed with caution.**

**Chapter 16**

She wasn't with him.

Spike watched her carefully, his body wrought with tense concern. He wanted to approach her even if he feared making things worse. He wanted to kiss her, but despite their tender lovemaking in the shower, he somehow knew physical comfort wasn't something she needed. She'd whispered things that made his undead heart sing; she'd asked him to love her, and it had taken every facet of his tired being to keep from assuring her that love was the one thing she would never need to ask of him. Love was the one thing she would always have.

He just didn't know if she wanted it—not in the way he wanted to love her, anyway. The Buffy he'd known in Sunnydale had vanished completely. The spark in her eyes had faded, along with the smile on her lips and the laughter in her throat. The life in her was gone, and he didn't know what to do.

God, he didn't know what to do.

So he watched. He stood quietly beside her, leaning against the wall with his arms folded as she fluffed her hair almost robotically. She couldn't see him in the mirror, of course. The mirror reflected her and her alone.

But she _wasn't_ alone. Every rigid move she made was wrung with awareness. She felt his eyes on her as sure as she felt anything. Spike was certain of it.

His eyes fell almost reluctantly to the mark on her throat. The mark on her throat which declared her as his. They still hadn't spoken about it. About what had happened the second he sank his fangs into her luscious body. The significance of her acceptance, and the amazing turnabout of her claim on him. There wasn't an inch of him that failed to hum. He was pulled to her and yet kept his distance. His arms ached to be around her. His body, unaccustomed to the tug of its mate's call, was hard and desperate to be inside her again. Spike had never thought himself as one to claim or be claimed; not after the failed attempt to stake his claim on Drusilla.

His demon snarled at the thought of his maker, but even as his cells drew him near his mate, his mind couldn't help but wander. It was easy to see now that Dru had never been his, and he supposed a part of him had even known it at the time. Still, it hadn't made the burn of her rejection any less painful. He well remembered the endless sea of hurt—the wail consuming his insides had echoed through his body for years. He hadn't understood then, even if her refusal hadn't completely surprised him. He hadn't understood how a woman who seemed to love him as much as Drusilla could refuse a man devoted to worshipping the very ground she walked on. A man who would dedicate his very existence to making her happy.

He hadn't been good enough for Dru. It was a sad reality—one which had followed him in shadows for years. One he would have ignored until the end of time had it not been for Buffy. Had Buffy not led him into sunlight. He burned for Buffy but didn't dust—she provided what no woman before her had or ever could. She made him see.

He'd left with her consciously. Dru was god-knows-where. Perhaps he'd been a sentimental fool in leaving her alive, but even with as much as the bitch had hurt him—even knowing her intention had been to destroy him—the part of him which remained grateful to her refused to take her life.

She would not be so lucky a second time. If Dru attempted to break into his life again—if she came after him or Buffy—he would destroy her. His debt to her was repaid in full. He'd already granted clemency she didn't deserve.

Buffy was his everything. He felt like he belonged after so many years of wandering through darkness. He felt as though the clouds had finally parted. He'd found in her what other men wasted lifetimes searching for, and he'd found her by accident. The love burning his chest was almost painful, but imagining a life without the warmth she gave him was strikingly unbearable. He'd only had her for a short while and he already knew he couldn't manage without her. It was a direct counterpoint to whatever he'd thought he'd felt in the past. With Cecily. With Dru. He didn't know how it was different, but God it was. And it was wonderful.

He suspected it was wonderful because it was real. He'd been attracted to darkness in the past. He was, after all, a vampire. But even as a man, his heart had led him to women encased in shadows and too in love with themselves to ever give love to anyone else. Cecily had been pride wrapped in selfishness. She'd stood as wintry as any woman he'd ever known, and she'd sent him running into the arms of true blackness.

Buffy wasn't dark. Not even now when she was broken could she hope to be dark. She was lost and hurting, doing her best to keep from completely shattering with every step. She was in need but she wouldn't ask for it. She wanted so badly to be strong. She didn't know how to move beyond this. She was hurting—God, she was hurting. But she wanted him to think she wasn't. She didn't know she wasn't standing alone.

And he knew she was going to run.

Spike's eyes darted to the ground, a long sigh commanding his body. It was damned hard staying quiet. Pretending not to know every wayward thought that crossed her beautiful head. His knowledge had nothing to do with the claim, though the feelings he felt rippling through her energy only substantiated what he already knew. He didn't want her to know that he knew—he didn't want her to think he would try to stop her.

He wanted to stop her. God knows he did. But he knew stopping her would forfeit the sacred trust between them. Stopping her would make her think he didn't value her independence or her strength. Stopping her would compromise everything.

He would let her go because he loved her. He wouldn't let her get far; just far enough. But he would let her go.

In order to keep her, he had to let her go.

Any more distance between them would mean the end of them both. And he couldn't let her leave him forever. He loved her too bloody much not to be near her. She didn't know she belonged to him, or rather that he belonged to her. But she had given herself to him freely. She could have refuted his claim when his fangs found her throat. She could have laughed and shoved him off her, all the while mocking his presumption. She could have refused him.

She hadn't. And Spike's love for her had deepened. Not because she didn't refuse him; it had nothing to do with Buffy's acceptance of a claim she didn't know he'd placed on her and everything to do with her acceptance of _him._ In a moment of pure instinct, she'd said yes to him. She'd said yes. And while he'd already loved her with everything he was before the magical word crossed her gorgeous lips, his love had fused into something larger and more powerful than he thought possible. He was helplessly and hopelessly hers, and as long as he breathed air he didn't need, he would bend reality to give her what she needed.

Even if what she needed was freedom.

A long, trembling sigh rolled off his lips. Freedom. For now.

Just enough to give her a head start.

"I bloody hate mirrors," Spike said, swallowing every emotion that crashed over her face at the intrusion of his voice. "Most of the time, anyway."

Buffy nodded, her eyes shooting to the place in the mirror where he would be standing if he were to cast a reflection. He found the notion endearing; something which told him plainly that she was aware of him—even more so than she knew. That she didn't consider him absent just because she couldn't see him.

"Most of the time, I do, too," she replied, her lips pulling into a half-smile which didn't reach her eyes. "My hair never does what I want it to."

"Your hair's perfect."

"It's—"

"Looks like you've been well shagged, an' I happen to find that look rather fetching." He smirked, his eyes dropping to take in the delicious curves that composed her backside. "'m also findin' I like seein' your front an' back at the same time."

Buffy paused again, her eyes once more seeking him in the mirror. She locked gazes with him without knowing it, and the power behind her intuition stole unneeded breath from his lungs. "I don't have much of a front," she replied, casting a self-conscious glance to her succulent breasts. "I'm amazed I can fill a C-cup."

"You're gorgeous."

"So says the man who's gotten lucky twice."

"So says the man who's had those delicious tits of yours in his mouth," he countered, enjoying the blush which stretched across her milky skin. "You're flawless."

"You're thinking with your penis." In another woman's voice, it would have sounded like an accusation. In Buffy's, it was almost an endearment.

God, he loved her. He was going to miss her so bloody much. He missed her already and she hadn't left yet. Spike honestly didn't know how long he was going to be able to withstand the distance between them. He wanted to give her time but something told him he'd be lucky if he managed to hold off his instincts as long as a week. He loved her; his first instinct was to be around her always. Letting her go at all went against everything he knew.

Throw in the claim and he was a man lost. Thoroughly lost. He was lost enough without the words and the sacred bond between them. "Doesn' make it any less true," he replied, his eyes dipping to her breasts. Christ, now he wanted her again. He didn't know why she was primping her hair, but something told him it wasn't to shag him before she took off to face her personal demons alone. "Trust me, love…there's not a thing about you I'd dream of changin'."

Buffy's eyes darted downward as though she knew she was staring at him, her skin flushing a deeper red. "Stop," she protested softly.

"Stop what? Telling you you're beautiful? Sorry, love…'m a man who appreciates beauty. Not gonna hush jus' because you've gotten some wonky complex."

"I don't feel beautiful."

"That's where the 'wonky complex' comes in." Spike swallowed hard and took a step forward. "Where we going, kitten? You hungry?"

She paused, visibly searching for words. "Yeah," she agreed. "Actually. Yeah. I…I dunno, I didn't think I'd be hungry after all we ate last night."

"It was the firs' thing you'd eaten since we left Sunnydale," he pointed out. The obvious response—an observation that they'd undoubtedly worked the meal off with the naked acrobatics the night before—remained lodged in his throat. He wasn't going to use sex to dominate her; Buffy wasn't the sort who could be dominated. Any attempt would only hurt her in the end.

Moreover, a submissive Buffy was the last thing he wanted. He wanted fight in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. He wanted her swinging and her body moving the way the Powers intended. He wanted his Buffy the way she was. Exactly as she was.

He wanted to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around her middle and beg her not to leave. He wanted to promise her a thousand things she wouldn't know to believe until she got a taste of the freedom she craved. This thing she felt she needed to do.

"Well, pet?" Spike prompted. "You wanna stay here an' let me grab somethin'? Or do you need to get out?"

She was quiet for a long second, and when she licked her lips he had to choke back a moan. He wanted to lick them for her. "Are you going back to the place we went last night?" she asked. "The diner?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "I'll go wherever you want."

A half grin tugged at Buffy's lips. "The woman from the diner was lusting after you bad."

Spike snickered appreciatively. "You noticed that, huh?"

"The way she was drooling all over your…sausage?" Buffy unknowingly met his eyes again in the mirror's reflection, and the ghost of her former cheekiness made his heart drop. It didn't last long, but it was enough to give him hope. Perhaps this distance she was going to impose between them wouldn't be long after all. "No," she continued, glancing down again. "I completely missed that."

He smirked and stepped forward, his hands, possessing a mind of their own, slowly lifted to caress the soft, warm temptation of her bare skin. His lips ached to follow suit and brush against her shoulder. His body was wrought with tension and strangled with need—knowledge pressing down that these moments would be their last. Their last for now. Their last until the clouds around his mate parted and she returned to him. "The bird din't notice I had everythin' a man could want right across the table," he murmured, his disobedient teeth biting at her earlobe. "That'd be you, baby."

Buffy trembled beneath his fingers. "Ohhh…"

"Mmm…" he agreed, his voice a rumbling purr. Good intentions dove out the window. He needed to have her. Just one last time, he needed to have her. "Buffy…"

Fortunately, the quivering girl under his hands seemed to agree with him. Before he could blink, Buffy released a long moan of surrender and twisted in his arms, cupping his cheeks and angling him into her kiss, splitting every vein in his body with bittersweet bliss. She tasted so good. So fucking good. All lightness and purity, and she was his. His beautiful, broken girl. Her mouth bruised him in hard desperation, her tongue whipping his, her lips owning him completely.

"Spike…"

He nodded urgently against her, his hands dropping to the hem of her camisole. "Can I?" he asked, already urging the fabric up her body. Buffy mewled her consent and dragged his mouth back to hers, rumbling harmonious moans against him as he filled his palms with her breasts. "Buffy…God…"

"Need you. Please." Her shaking hands fell to his waistband, fumbling with his belt buckle. "Please. _Please." _

"I'm here, love," Spike replied, his voice impossibly calm in cool contrast to the heat ripping him apart. His cock ached and strained hard against his zipper, desperate for the feel of her warm hand around him. He needed her so much. So fucking much. He needed to feel her in his arms, her pussy wrapped around his cock. He needed the solace of his mate, and he needed to give her solace in return. He just needed her, and he needed her now. "I'm right here."

Buffy shook her head deafly and gave up the conquest of his fly with a defeated sigh. Her eyes were wide and panicked, filled to the brim with tears. "Please," she cried. "Please…"

It was almost funny the way things could drop. Without warning, Spike's heart shattered. He knew what this was.

This was goodbye.

In her mind, probably forever.

But it wasn't. It wasn't forever. For them, forever was just that. The time they'd spent apart would be ultimately dwarfed by the millennia at their feet.

"I'm here," Spike told her again, his voice achingly vacant. He reached between them to undo his fly, taking her wrist in his hand and guiding her touch to where he needed her. "I'm right here."

He'd say it over and over again if she liked. Whatever she wanted, he'd give.

"Please," Buffy begged again, wresting a kiss from his lips. "Please."

Spike swallowed hard and bit back tears. "Whatever you need, baby," he replied hoarsely, a low moan tearing through his body when his cock finally sprang free of its denim prison and into Buffy's waiting hand. "Whatever you need."

"I need you," she whispered.

His heart melted. "You've got me," he swore, his head dipping to capture one of her perfect nipples between his teeth as his hands tore at her jeans. "You've got me. I'm right here."

"Spike…"

"'m right here."

He didn't know if she truly heard him. He barely heard himself. All he knew was that she was asking him for something she already had—something she would always have—and no amount of swearing himself to her achieved the reassurance she so craved.

This was the fall. The last fall.

But if this was the last, he wouldn't deny himself. He couldn't. Not with her pussy soaked for him. Not with her hand wrapped around his cock. Not with the tears drowning her eyes or the gasps seizing her throat.

He would worship her body with his. He would shower her skin with kisses and pour his love into her however he could. However he could without frightening her with words.

He would love her now, and hope she felt everything he didn't say.

Hope making love to her now would let her know just how much this wasn't over between them.

Not over. Oh no.

Just beginning.

* * *

Buffy couldn't stop crying.

Her hands trembled as she bunched the hotel's complimentary toiletries into her worn school backpack. Her legs wobbled with every careful step she took across the blindingly-white-yet-worn carpet. Her cheeks were wet and cold, her nose a runny mess, and though her eyes were half-blinded with tears, she moved around the room as though she'd lived within its confines all her life.

Every cell in her body tugged her back to the bed. To the gorgeous vampire draped in linen sheets. He slept peacefully, murmuring every few seconds but never awaking. He slept while she gathered what few things she had. The backpack she'd retrieved from the Desoto, the value-pack of underwear she'd purchased when they stopped for gas, and whatever free-accessories she could locate. And with every move she made, her body sank further into depression and her tears came harder. The ache in her chest had every nerve weeping for respite. She didn't understand it—she barely understood herself.

What had happened between them had rocked her completely. It would be easy. God, it would be so easy. She could discard everything she felt—every tug of her soul in the wager between right and wrong and lose herself in Spike's arms. She could. And at that moment, she wanted to.

But it would kill her. In the end, when the sting of cold finally melted into warmth and she returned entirely to herself, being with Spike would kill her. Not by his intent; by what he could not control. Her feelings for him were already too complex to name. Spike was so murky when it came to the definitions of good and evil. There was nothing evil about what he'd done for her thus far. He'd sworn his allegiance to her, nearly died because of her, saved the world with her, and helped her save her from herself by getting her away from the scene of the crime.

He'd been whatever she needed him to be. Last night when she needed to forget, he'd allowed her to use him as means to banish the world. He'd allowed her to bruise him with her body, and had bruised her in turn. He'd given her pain because she'd wanted it; this morning and today, he'd given her solace.

He'd shown her the man inside, all the while keeping the demon at bay. But the demon was as much a part of him as the man. It was something he couldn't help, and would ultimately destroy her. His inherent evil couldn't remain dormant for long; once it showed its face, what little was left of her would be completely crushed.

Buffy sniffed hard and wiped at her eyes, her gaze reluctantly falling on Spike once more. He was so beautiful. So distant. Temptation wrapped in sin.

She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay so badly. But she couldn't. If she did, she'd be right back where she started. She'd be a slayer in love with a vampire; one with nothing holding him back from destroying her.

Buffy inhaled sharply, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

_Go now. _

Spike murmured again and stretched in his sleep.

Her feet carried her across the room before she could stop herself, her wet, tear-stained lips brushing his as she battled the prevailing need to break down completely. She reached into her left pocket and withdrew the hasty note she'd scribbled for his benefit. She'd hoped to leave him a prolific explanation, compact with her regrets and her reasoning. She'd hoped to leave him with something more than what she had.

In the end, though, her trembling hand could only manage two lines.

_I'm so sorry. Goodbye. _

She would be miles away before her hand delved into her other pocket. Before she discovered something that hadn't been there before. A roll of cash, composed mainly of hundreds and fifties. A roll of cash and, in strikingly elegant penmanship, a note.

**A/N:** My thanks to my betas for their guidance and insight, and to my readers for your support and understanding.

This is where the true detour from BtVS canon begins. I might have stretched the AtS timeline a bit, but roughly the dates should align so that the following fits in canon. If not, I'm going to unapologetically make it fit in canon. Heh. No knowledge of AtS is necessary to follow what transpires from this moment on—I'm just using the characters. Their destinies will be shaped by the events I put into motion; I might use things from AtS canon, but if I do, they'll be explained in text.

In the meantime, thank you all so much. I hope you're comfortable—this ride's just getting started.

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** My thanks to my betas for their guidance and insight, and to my readers for your support and understanding.

This is where the true detour from BtVS canon begins. I might have stretched the AtS timeline a bit, but roughly the dates should align so that the following fits in canon. If not, I'm going to unapologetically make it fit in canon. Heh. No knowledge of AtS is necessary to follow what transpires from this moment on—I'm just using the characters. Their destinies will be shaped by the events I put into motion; I might use things from AtS canon, but if I do, they'll be explained in text.

Reviews make Spike come back quicker. In the meantime, thank you all so much. I hope you're comfortable—this ride's just getting started.

**Chapter 17**

The note remained in her pocket for two weeks. She couldn't bring herself to remove it—couldn't stand the idea of any further separation from him, even if it was to leave behind the scrap of paper on which he'd written. She felt strangely close to him with his writing in her pocket. His ominous note which promised to find her, no matter the cost.

The revolving door of emotion had finally landed on comfort. Discovering the note had left her numb for what felt like days, and in the immediate aftermath of shock, it was always natural to search for anger in place of cool, rational reasoning. Spike had known from the beginning what she was going to do—he hadn't stopped her, he hadn't even confronted her. He hadn't done anything except what she'd told herself she wanted; he'd let her walk out the door.

He'd known all along. For some reason, it made her angry.

Anger never lasted, of course, especially when it was unfounded. In Buffy's case, her anger stretched the length of perhaps thirty seconds before she dissolved into tears. And it seemed she hadn't stopped crying since.

Spike had let her walk away. He hadn't tried to stop her. He'd let her do what she felt she needed to do.

He'd let her…

And now she ached. There wasn't an inch of her that wasn't sore. Pain stretched her every nerve, every cell. Her insides were consumed with hurt. She felt it with every step. Every time she tried to climb to her feet, all of her went rigid and she found herself sapped of the will to move.

It was as though her body had collapsed on her. Now she was lying in bed, her eyes blankly fixed on the cream-colored wall. The room she'd booked was nice, as per Spike's instructions, and she still had plenty of money left even after two weeks and Los Angeles' sky-high prices. She didn't want to think about where he'd gotten it or when he'd had the time to place the cash in her pocket. She didn't want to think about the decision she'd made at all.

She didn't want to think about how alone she was.

The pain stretching through her worn body was unlike anything she'd felt. It had begun as a stomach ache—a vague annoyance. Nothing she would have expected to extend into all-out incapacitation. But for the past day and a half, Buffy had lacked the will-power to do much of anything. Hours were occupied on her hotel bed, watching the news as her thoughts wandered to the life she'd left behind.

To those in Sunnydale—faces she knew and loved. Faces she didn't know when she'd be ready to see again. Any thought to a possible homecoming was far away—a distant speck of nothing on an endless timeline.

Buffy shivered, a dark shadow filling her veins. She tried telling herself that time healed all wounds. That the boulder resting on her heart would eventually erode into nothing. That she would awake one morning without feeling like every corner of her body was cracked. Her memories would wash into something painless, and she would face the prospect of a new day without breaking.

She knew time healed all wounds, but even knowledge couldn't provide clarity. All Buffy knew right now was she didn't want to go back.

It wasn't a matter of _now. _

It was a matter of _never. _

Buffy sighed heavily, wincing as she forced herself to sit up. Every move made her weakened body scream in protest. If the world wanted to end right now she'd be in no place to stop it. She couldn't slay a fly, much less a vampire. Acathla's jaw could drop and suck everything into the spiraling bowels of Hell and she'd be useless to do anything more than find something and hold on tight.

Something was wrong. Wrong and more than wrong. Buffy knew depression could debilitate people, but it wasn't supposed to be like this. So consuming. So…

She wanted Spike.

The thought of him had her screaming nerves sighing with a small measure of relief. Spike. Spike would make everything better. His touch would cool the fire scorching her skin raw. The comfort of his arms would ease every screaming ache in her body. She wanted him so much.

Something was very wrong. Something had happened—changed. Something was different.

Something had changed in the motel room with Spike. He'd brought her body to life with pleasure. He'd held her and kissed her tears away. He'd been everything.

He'd bitten her.

Buffy's eyes went wide, her hand shooting to the tender mark on her throat.

He'd bitten her. He'd bitten her, and something had changed. He'd said something—God, he'd told her she was his.

Mine, he'd said.

Not only that, she'd bitten him in turn. And she'd said the same. She'd staked her claim on Spike.

Blood. Vampires. Words. Oaths.

Something had happened that night. Something unprecedented. Something which had changed everything.

She just had to find out what.

* * *

It felt very wrong stepping inside a public library without Giles over her shoulder. For a long second, Buffy stood motionless in the foyer, her eyes absorbing the bustling movement of eager readers moving from aisle to aisle of books. She was so unaccustomed to seeing the library—any library—filled with eager patrons that for a second she considered stepping outside to double-check that she was in the right building.

It wasn't until she was standing in front of a stern-looking librarian that she really began to miss Giles. In Sunnydale, asking for books about demons and vampires wasn't something that earned an arched-brow and a cleared throat. And while she was nearly certain the reaction she received from the librarian was all in her head, it didn't make the effects resonate any less.

No, Buffy felt most assuredly alone.

"Vampires?" the librarian repeated. "Anne Rice, that sort of thing? Our paranormal romance section—"

"No," Buffy replied quickly. "Not paranormal romance. I mean…like…non-fiction."

"Oh." A blink. "Certainly. This way, please."

Ten minutes later, she was hidden away in a secluded area of the library, staring at a page of text she honestly hadn't the first idea of how to decipher. And in seconds, she found herself sinking in her seat. This was so much not her area. The books. The knowledge. She was more a stake-in-hand-slaying-baddies person. Without someone to translate what the words meant, she might as well have been reading Greek.

Buffy really didn't know what she was looking for. There wasn't a word for what she was feeling; for the pain stabbing her heart with every breath. For the way her hand trembled every time she moved to turn the page. For the hurt consuming her chest with every breath.

For the way she craved Spike—craved the comfort of touch and silky touch of his kiss. Craved him like she'd craved nothing before.

"I'm getting nowhere," she murmured, turning another yellow, aged page. Words meshed into a shapeless blur. "This is me…getting nowhere."

How could she research something based on something she was feeling? Spike had said _mine_ when he bit her. _Mine._ There wasn't an index big enough to cover the implications of that one, monosyllabic word.

If there were any implications.

If this wasn't indeed all in her head.

Buffy sucked in a breath and turned another page. Nothing. Nothing. Garlic. Crosses. Holy water. Speculation on the earliest vampires in history. Words here and there about the ways vampires were born, a debate on whether or not they aged, and a few paragraphs from so-called experts as to the truth behind the Slayer myth.

"I could be standing on a hill in the middle of nowhere and I'd know more about what's happening to me than I know right now." Buffy sighed and surveyed her surroundings wearily. "I'm also talking to myself, which isn't exactly the best of signs. I'm talking to myself and I'm learning nothing. This was definitely worth the trip."

Her words died with an electric crackle of energy. A crackle which undeniably should not exist in a library. In a blink, she was shot back some three hundred miles, buried in a book in Sunnydale, where energy crackles and dimensional rips were something normal. Something not completely out of the ordinary.

Buffy didn't know how she knew it was a dimensional rip; she just did. It was split-second recognition. Something she knew immediately, without fault. Without hesitation.

And just as quickly, the pain in her body hardened into a rush of determination. She shoved everything internal aside and jumped to her feet, instincts leading her toward the roar of the blast. Thoughts rushed alongside reason and collided in a jumbled mess; she didn't know where she was running or what toward—she didn't have anything with her but Spike's note—and reality, it seemed, was on an indefinite hold.

The air roared with the familiar shrill of human terror. Buffy turned a corner and saw it.

She didn't have time to stop. She barely had time to hesitate. The light was blinding, a cloudy swirl of shapes and colors. Something in the distance bellowed but she didn't allow herself a beat of hesitation. There was a girl with a book in her hands—a young girl whose face was stricken with terror.

"Help!" the girl screamed. "Oh God, please!"

The blinding cloud of light was growing wider. In a second it would consume the entire aisle, and the girl would be gone.

Buffy didn't breathe. Didn't think. In an instant, her hand closed around the girl's wrist and she was running again in the other direction. The girl fell in clumsily behind her, a deadweight, but quickly gathered her bearings and broke off in a sprint.

"I—"

Buffy shook her head hard. "Don't talk," she said hurriedly. She shoved the girl behind a row of shelves and dropped instinctively to the ground, pain spearing through her body like thunder. Her heart hammered, her breaths crushed her chest, and every inch of her was aching beyond ache.

Beside her, the girl she'd rescued was shaking hard. "What was that?"

Buffy didn't answer her. The answer was there, of course, but she didn't know what to tell her. Even if her thoughts weren't racing and her body wasn't about to crack and shatter in a thousand indiscernible pieces, this wasn't her area. This was so not her area. This was Giles's area. Her area was saving the helpless. Her area ended now.

Her area ended after the grunt work was complete.

A few minutes went by; a few minutes which could have easily spanned a few hours for as much as her insides hurt. The roar of the dimensional rip rolled into a gentle rumble before dying out altogether, and the shadows it cast against the row of bookcases similarly faded into nothing. And then there was nothing. Nothing but her heart drumming hard against her breastbone and the terrified tremors of the girl at her side.

Nothing that Buffy could see, anyway.

"Stay put," she said sharply. The girl nodded and jerked her head forward, her eyes focusing on the carpet.

Every move she made cut deeper into her body, but Buffy forced herself to ignore it. Worrying a lip between her teeth, she raised herself onto her knees and peered around the shelf.

Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a hint of the rip which had torn through the barriers of reality just seconds before. No screams. No blank stares from a group of bystanders. In the distance, she heard conversation and the click of fingers against keyboards. She heard the scan of books being checked out and the recitation of due dates from the lips of librarians. It was all there—far away, of course, but there. People around her were continuing with their lives. On the surface, nothing had happened.

How was that possible?

Buffy thought immediately of Sunnydale, and she knew the answer. If it wasn't right in front of some people, they didn't see it. And she had been alone on this level of the library. She'd been alone other than the girl. She'd been alone with her book on vampires which provided no answers and a thousand additional questions. Life continued around them as though nothing had occurred, because ostensibly, nothing had.

"I-is anything there?" the girl asked. "S-s-sorry. I don't mean—"

"I don't see anything," Buffy replied. "Lemme make sure…wait here."

"Okay."

Buffy climbed to her feet, fighting off a wince. "I'm gonna go check it out."

"Be careful," the girl whimpered, but she didn't need to be told that.

The walk back to the aisle was long. Every step seemed to render her destination further away. She was panting hard, every breath stabbing her lungs with shards of self-awareness. And when she reached the row of books where the dimensional rip had opened, there was nothing to suggest anything extraordinary had occurred. No burnt carpet. No books on the floor. Nothing.

Well, nothing except for the green demon, whose eyes were so wide she was at first convinced that her presence had come as the greater shock.

"Great googly—"

Buffy's hands flexed in need of a weapon. "Hey—"

"I'll just…" The demon motioned in the other direction. "Be on my way."

"Not so—"

The words barely had time to touch the air. The demon waved awkwardly, then turned on his heel and bolted. And while she commanded her legs to follow him, they had hardened completely into lead. She toppled forward before she could stop herself, her palms bracing her fall and the impact sending shockwaves of pain through every fiber of her being.

That was how the girl found her. Curled on the floor, gasping for air and needing Spike so badly that she was certain she wouldn't make it through the night.

"Oh my God," the girl cried, falling to her knees at her side. "Are…are you all right?"

Buffy whimpered, her voice clawing for escape.

"I'm gonna get you help," the girl promised. "Just stay—"

"Uhhh…"

"I'm gonna—"

"No," she managed at last, rolling onto her back. "No. I…" There was no one who could help her. No one but her vampire, and she still didn't know why. "No…I'm…I just need…"

There was a beat of silence. "Let's get you out of here," the girl said softly. "I'll get you help."

"No—"

"You saved my life. I'll get you help."

Buffy wanted to argue but found she hadn't the strength. She hadn't the strength to do anything. So she didn't speak. She didn't try something she knew she would do little more than zap what diminutive energy she had left. Instead, she allowed the girl to help her to her feet. She took her arm when offered and wobbled on unsteady legs to the nearest table.

"I'm Fred, by the way," the girl said awkwardly. "Fred Burkle."

"Buffy," she replied in kind, though it came out as little more than a gasp.

"I'm gonna get you help."

There was no way she could, but the point was very much moot.

Instead, she allowed Fred to escort her from the library, hoping the girl's strength would be enough for both of them if she collapsed again.

Hoping Spike would be waiting for her when she left the library, ready to make good on his promise. Ready to find her.

She hadn't even the strength to cry when she stepped outside at Fred's guidance, and was greeted by the sight of nothing at all.

Spike wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere, and she couldn't blame him.

She'd left him, and he wasn't there.

He wasn't there. Of course he wasn't. She'd left him. And in spite of whatever he'd told her, in spite of the note burning a hole in her pocket, there was no reason to expect him.

Not when she'd been the one to walk away.

She'd made the call. She'd made the decision.

And now she was in pain. Her bones were diseased with pain. Her heart was sick. Her skin was tender. There was no part of her that didn't hurt.

She was alone.

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

**Previously:** _Unaware she's been claimed by Spike, and having unwittingly claimed him back, an emotionally-battered Buffy abandoned Spike in their motel. She later discovers later that he knew she was planning to run and provided her with money. Once the effects of the claim and separation set in, Buffy travels to the local library to find a solution to her ailment, where she rescues a certain young woman from being sucked into an alternate dimension._

**Chapter 18**

Buffy wasn't accustomed to relying on the kindness of strangers. In her experience, the notion itself was a living contradiction. And yet, here she sat in the welcomed comfort of a stranger's home, sipping tea the same stranger had made her and awaiting a bowl of homemade soup. This was the sort of thing she would normally dismiss without much thought, but with her body aching at the slightest twitch, she was suddenly faced with the awareness that if it came down to it, she could be at the stranger's mercy.

Buffy was either entirely fortunate or entirely foolish.

"What was that thing?" the girl called Fred asked, her Texan accent stronger now than it had been on the streets.

The Slayer's eyes flittered shut. Distantly, she knew she should come up with some outrageously bogus lie, but she hadn't the strength or inclination to protect people from the truth of the world anymore. She shouldn't be the only one burdened with knowledge. The Powers had chosen her, and now she was choosing someone else. There wasn't enough will left in her to give a damn.

"It was a portal," she said without ceremony, swallowing a mouthful of tea.

In a perfect world, one would take the revelation at face-value without need for explanation. What ensued was nothing but proof that the world was not and would never be perfect.

"A…" Fred's voice was trembling. "A portal?"

Buffy would like to think she would have been inclined to comfort the girl were she not hurting, but after everything she'd been through, she couldn't muster much sympathy for people who got to live with a perpetual blindfold. Not with everything she'd been through. Everything she'd given up. Everything she'd suffered.

"Yeah…a portal."

"A portal to…to what?" Fred rounded the sofa with a cup of tomato soup in her hands. She placed the offering on her worn coffee table and took a seat in the rocker opposite Buffy. "It's not some kinda code, is it?"

Buffy blinked. "A code?" The excuses people made to guard themselves from the truth were frightening at times. Then again, she could be cranky because she felt she'd been poisoned. If she didn't know better, she'd swear her insides were diseased and rotting, chipping away until there would be nothing of her left.

She felt she was melting from the inside out.

The girl flushed and glanced down. "I guess not, then."

"Chances are it was to another dimension," Buffy said, reaching for the proffered cup of soup. It smelled wonderful, and even through the gnawing pain eating away at her, she could discern a good amount of it was due to hunger. "That…that demon…came out of it."

Fred paled visibly. "D-demon?"

Buffy's eyes fell shut and she suppressed an inner groan. After so many years fighting evil, there was no good way to cushion people from the truth of the world around them. Even if she wanted to, she hadn't the slightest idea where she would begin. There was no easy segue.

She didn't know how much Fred truly wanted to know and how much was just curiosity.

_Oh, to hell with it. She asked. _

"Demon. As in monsters."

"L-like…werewolves? A-and zombies?" Fred's eyes went wide. "Oh my God, is it actually possible to reanimate dead flesh? Because that sort of research could be incredibly beneficial to the medical community. Think of all the diseases we could cure. The milestones we could overcome. The…what?"

Buffy just stared at her. "I think you might be the only person I've ever met who's gone from 'zombies' to 'medical breakthrough.'"

The girl flushed and glanced down. "Sorry," she said self-consciously. "I'm…I'm a scientist. My brain just goes there."

"You're a scientist?"

Fred's eyes went wide, scandalized, as though she'd never heard the word, much less applied it to herself. "Well, I…yeah, I am. I majored in mathematics and physics and I'm working on my doctorate. My knowledge of other sciences is also…well, out there." Her blush deepened and she glanced down, shaking her head. "I normally don't brag, I promise. But I am…"

"Wow."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…just…the idea of reanimating dead flesh is fascinating." The girl's eyes flashed with said fascination, adapting the sort of look Dr. Frankenstein might have worn before he created his monster. "I don't suppose you've ever…seen a zombie, have you? Or do they prefer to be called Non-Living US Citizens?"

Buffy fidgeted uncomfortably. For whatever reason, she'd thought Fred to be her age, but admittedly learning the woman had a few years on her did put things in a clearer light. Like why she lived in not-a-slum and had credit cards. "I don't think there's a PC term for zombies, no. None that I've come across, anyway."

"So they do exist? Have you seen one?"

She made a face. "I…ummm…well, a girl I know last year was…uhhh…targeted by a zombie to be his undead eternal girlfriend. Really, from what I've seen, the whole thing is messy and icksome."

Great. She'd used a standard Buffy-nonword in the presence of a scientist. She might as well go around telling people her age and her IQ were identical.

Fred nodded. "I'd imagine so," she said, seemingly oblivious to Buffy's discomfort. "That sort of knowledge in the wrong hands could go a long, long way. Wars never ending, the resurgence of dictatorships. We'd potentially have a world filled with Machiavellians." The possibility seemed to alarm her. "This is definitely the sort of thing we should keep to ourselves."

"I'll have to go take down all my Fabulous-Job-Opportunities-For-Zombies signs, but I think we can manage." Buffy shifted again, wincing as her body rebelled and surged with another wave of pain. "But…I think you get the idea. Zombies. Werewolves. Demons. Vampires—"

The poor girl looked horrified. "Vampires?"

Buffy had to bite back a mildly bemused grin. It always surprised her how vampires somehow warranted a larger reaction than the litany of other non-human creatures which prowled the night. "Yeah," she agreed. "Vampires."

"The kind that suck blood?"

"Do you know of another kind?"

Fred worried a lip between her teeth and appeared to give the query serious consideration before ultimately shaking her head. "I guess not." She frowned. "It's kind of funny, I guess."

"Oh yeah. A regular barrel of laughs."

"I just mean…I'm sitting here learning about vampires and Non-Living US Citizens and portals and…it sounds so crazy." Her eyes narrowed. "Doesn't it sound crazy?"

A soft, sad smile tickled Buffy's lips. "I think I'm long past the point in my life where anything can surprise me," she said. "Even when…when I was Called…it was all with the wiggy and the ample amounts of _huh?..._but it never surprised me. The part about the demons and the apocalypses and the—"

"Apocalypse_s?_ As in more than one?"

Buffy winced.

_Whups. _

The look on Fred's face became distant, almost hopeless. "I…wow…I think I…I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down."

"Oh." A beat. "Good for me."

"It's okay," Buffy offered lamely. "I…I might not look it right now, but I…I've gotten pretty good at stopping the end of the world."

Fred glanced up again, wide-eyed.

The Slayer waved her hand. "Professional world-endage stopper," she asserted. At the girl's blank look, she sighed and figured it was time to get comfortable. It looked as though she was going to be here for a while. "I'm what they call the Slayer."

"Who's _they?" _

"The people who continually muck up my life," she replied. Then, hesitating, she decided to throw the girl a bone. It was only fair; Fred had brought her into her home. She'd fed her and gotten her comfortable, and had offered more than once to pull out the sofa fold-out bed.

Trouble was, the longer Buffy stayed, the slimmer her chances of leaving for the night became. And while she knew it was dangerous to form attachments, there was something about having someone to talk—someone she didn't know but found herself liking nonetheless—which offered more than its fair share of comfort.

Fred deserved a chance to escape with only a few shocking revelations to mull over. Many people managed to accept the fact the world around them was a fake, covering for the subculture of demons, and continue with their lives relatively unbothered.

Buffy sighed. The part of her which was angry enough at her situation—at the world—to want to condemn Fred to the same knowledge she had to live with every day was quickly shoved aside by compassion. None of what had happened was Fred's fault; Buffy was furious with her body, and she missed Spike like one might miss an arm or a leg. Her every cell screamed for him. Her blood pumped for him. Her heart was sick for him.

Maybe if she kept talking she would forget how much she missed him.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she slowly turned back to Fred and swallowed hard at the girl's wide-eyed anticipation. "Do you…" she began slowly, "do you really wanna know?"

Fred didn't hesitate. "Absolutely."

"It's gonna change things for you."

"Things are changed for me anyway. I don't think I could manage now knowing even _this_ much…without knowing all of it."

A smile tickled her lips. "All right," she agreed. "I…I might take you up on your offer, then."

"My offer?"

"Unless it's no good, which is fine. I just…this might take a while." She paused before clarifying, "The staying here thing. I thought—"

"Oh!" Fred jumped to her feet. "I'll go get you blankets and pillows and…and…I have a teddy-bear you can borrow if you want. His name is Wilsbury and he's…" She froze and the pink in her cheeks deepened. "I'll just…you're free to ignore that. The part where I still have a security blanket at the age of—"

Buffy held up a hand and smiled. "I have a pig," she said softly. "He's back at my hotel…so I'll be glad for some company."

Fred looked appalled. "A pig?"

"A stuffed pig."

"Oh. Oh, right." She glanced down self-consciously. "I'll just…go get the stuff."

"Don't you want me to tell you?"

The girl nodded. "Oh yes. But we have all night, don't we? I don't go to work tomorrow and I want to get you comfortable. I mean…you saved my _life._ The least I can do is get you a teddy-bear on loan."

Buffy's eyes bounced between the cup of soup and the half-consumed tea. "You've done a lot, Fred."

"You saved my _life." _

"We don't know that. You might have been taken to a fluffy bunny dimension."

Fred waved a hand. "I'm getting you stuff. You just sit tight, all right? And let me know if there's anything else I can get you."

She disappeared down a hall and Buffy collapsed wearily against the sofa. She knew the helpful thing to do would entail climbing to her feet and setting up the pull-out bed, but she doubted she had the strength to make it to her feet, let alone do lifting of any kind—heavy or not.

_God._ Her life was such a wonderful mess. She was sitting in a stranger's living room in the company of perhaps the last genuine person Buffy had ever known, and her heart felt like it was dying.

_Spike. _

Where was he tonight? Was he thinking about her? Did he even care anymore?

A long sigh rushed through her lips. Of course he didn't care. She'd given him no reason to care.

None whatsoever.

Not after she'd left him.

* * *

Touching her note gave him some comfort, but not much. Not enough to quell the resounding scream piercing his every nerve. For the first time since he'd fought to liberate himself from his own grave he could feel his demon clawing at his insides as though trying to rip its way to freedom. He needed to touch her—he needed her skin beneath his hands and her taste in his mouth. His need for her eclipsed anything he'd ever experienced, burning a hole in his heart so deep the universe was in danger of falling inside. He'd known it would be hard, of course. The separation. The first stages. The pain. He'd known what to expect.

Buffy had not. She'd left before he could tell her.

Before she could know.

God, what a fool he'd been. He should have told her immediately—the second her blood hit his tongue, the second she solidified the claim with her acceptance before initiating one of her own. He should have told her. He should have told her what that made them.

He should have told her immediately that she was his.

Perhaps then he wouldn't be where he was. Standing outside the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza, the place where the claim had dragged him. He was pleased; she had at least followed his request. She was being taken care of here. She was taking care of herself.

She was hurting and she didn't know why. He'd done that to her.

_I'm so sorry. Goodbye. _

The note remained in his duster pocket. He rubbed it between his fingers.

It had only taken him a day to catch up with her, and from there an hour or so to discover where she'd checked-in. The money he'd given her wouldn't last indefinitely, but it was enough for now. Eventually, however, she would find herself without a roof over her head and a stomach begging to be fed. And as much as Spike wanted to respect her need for distance, the burning desire to touch her was too bloody painful to ignore.

He'd be inside the hotel now if he thought he'd find her. But she wasn't there.

She hadn't come back here tonight.

Spike sighed and fished out his half-smoked carton of fags from his other pocket. Buffy's scent was ripe around him and it wouldn't take long to pick up a trail. He could find where she'd gone. He could track her down. He could.

Or he could wait. Gather strength. Give her more time.

_I'm so sorry. Goodbye. _

His eyes fell shut, will battling need.

She was out there. She was somewhere. And she needed him.

"Buffy," he whispered.

He liked to believe she could hear him, or at least feel he was near. He _needed_ her to know he was near.

If she knew, she'd know he was coming for her. That he had found her as he'd promised.

He could only hope she was ready.

**TBC**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Having known Fred less than twenty-four hours, it took surprisingly little for Buffy to deduce that her new acquaintance shared Willow's view on playing hooky. One's job was to be taken seriously; as seriously as homework and studying and separating one's whites and coloreds. Therefore, Buffy was more than surprised when Fred announced over their breakfast of Frosted Flakes that she was calling in a sick day.

"You are?"

Fred nodded. "I have a lot of vacation days saved up and they go to waste eventually."

"But you…_enjoy_ work." It was true; having listened to the girl ramble all night, Buffy had reached the startling conclusion that there was someone out there who was more library-dependent than Giles. She hesitated to think what would happen should her Watcher and her new friend ever find themselves in the same room. Or worse, in the same corner of the same library, desperately needing the same book.

"There's more to life than work," Fred countered, shrugging. "Besides…I don't want to leave you by yourself."

"You don't even know me," Buffy protested, forcing herself to her feet with a wince, jerking her empty bowl out of Fred's reach. She might feel like an invalid but that didn't mean she was going to let a virtual stranger wait on her hand and foot. Fred could remind her about the saving-of-her-life thing all she wanted; Buffy had been raised under the rules that when a guest in someone's house, she was supposed to pick up after herself. And for whatever reason, she couldn't stand the thought of doing her mother's parentage injustice by ignoring it now…no matter how hard her body complained at movement.

And right on cue, Fred chirped in with what was now a familiar song. "You saved—"

"—your life. And as I explained again and _again_ last night, it was…well I know it wasn't _nothing_ for you, but it's just not that uncommon for me."

"Do you know anyone in the city?"

Buffy blinked. "What?"

"You told me you'd lived in Los Angeles before. Do you know anyone in the city?"

The question took her completely off guard. Immediately, her mind flashed to the old Hemery yearbook buried in her closet back home, compiled with familiar faces and phone numbers from people she'd once called friends. People she could barely remember now. People who would laugh at her if she contacted them for help.

It didn't help that almost everyone's last memory of her involved arson.

The fact that she thought of her father _after_ considering the list of nameless faces she'd once called friends drew upon itself how very much she couldn't rely on him. Showing up on Hank Summers's doorstep was as good as purchasing a bus-ticket home, and home was the last place she wanted to be.

The only place she wanted to be was with Spike. Spike could make everything all right again.

_That ship has sailed. _

"I…I know people," Buffy replied, trying and failing to ignore how small her voice sounded. "I know them. My friend…Kimberly…she lives…somewhere. I'm sure she lives _somewhere." _

Fred arched a brow. "Well, somewhere sounds a little ambiguous, especially when _I'm_ right here," she said. Then, with something resembling contrition, she added, "I know you don't know me, but I'm nice and I shower every day and I have canned goods. Plus you—"

"Saved your life. I know."

"I was gonna say…you have the super-strength going for you, so you could take me if you thought I was gonna axe-murder you."

A wry smile tickled her mouth. The ache withering her muscles into complete uselessness begged to differ. "Well…I guess it's to my advantage that you think that."

"If what I saw last night was you when you're not feeling good, I'd hate to be on your crap list when you're at your best."

Buffy withheld an incredulous snort. Either Fred's imagination had run away with her, or she'd managed to keep herself from facing any real danger since moving to Los Angeles. Of the two possibilities, the first was the most likely. Buffy hadn't encountered much hero-worship since she was called, but she was certainly familiar with the concept. All she'd done last night was tackle the poor girl to the floor and somehow Fred had concocted this miraculous image of the Slayer and her powers. Never mind the portal or what else—last night hadn't been about being the Slayer; it had been about being human. Human and aware of the world. The true world. The face beneath the surface. Anyone with a heart would have done the same.

Still, undeserved hero-worship or not, Buffy couldn't deny that it was nice having someone worry over her. Someone with whom to chat—someone who didn't know her, who wouldn't hold her to unrealistic expectations and glare at her disapprovingly when she proved to be as human as the next person. Someone unlike the friends waiting for her back home.

The only other face she could conjure who would meet these guidelines was Spike.

Buffy honestly had no idea how long she would be in Los Angeles. For the moment, the idea of getting anywhere near the vicinity of Sunnydale made her diseased bones feel damn near brittle, no matter that logic told her homesickness would invariably set in and send her home before the summer was over. Loneliness, however, was something she could control. Only a fool would reject an unsolicited offer of friendship.

She'd already proved herself a fool. She'd left Spike. God, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. There _had_ been a reason then. She was sure of it.

"I don't want to be an inconvenience," Buffy said, feeling, for reasons beyond her, very humble.

"And you're not," Fred replied brightly. "It's pretty much a win/win all around. Plus, if you stayed with me, you'd save loads of money—"

Somehow, Buffy managed to keep from dropping her bowl into the sink. "St…stay with you?"

"Unless you don't want to…but…"

"You don't know me, Fred. This is insane."

"I know," Fred replied brightly. She didn't have the appearance of one who _knew._ She looked too cheery—too friendly—for her own good. "But I'm a pretty good judge of character."

"There's a difference between being a good judge of character and inviting a stranger to stay with you."

"If you wanted me dead, you wouldn't have hurt yourself saving my life last night." She batted a hand. "No matter how long I'm here, I can't get rid of my darn southern hospitality. You don't have to stay if you don't want…but it'll save you money and I could use the company…plus, if you're looking to stay in town long, I can help you try and find a job." She trailed off, her brow furrowing in thought. "Actually…how long _are_ you planning on staying?"

Buffy blanked, her eyes going wide. It was easy to think of that question in the abstract; the last thing she'd ever thought she'd be asked to do was estimate a time-table. When the journey home was admittedly far away, but not so far she couldn't see the finish line.

"I'm…I dunno," Buffy answered lamely. "I haven't thought about it."

"Oh," Fred replied, shrugging. "I only ask because my neighbor, Mr. Binns, is moving out. His wife's sick and their insurance won't allow them to stay in the city anymore. It's sad, really…but he's always been very nice to me, and he wanted to give me first dibs on the apartment because it's so much bigger than mine. But honestly, I don't need space like that and I was gonna…" She worried a lip between her teeth. "I guess a point would be nice, huh? The point is I could talk to him…if you're thinking about staying for a while. It's a nice apartment and from what he told me, not too expensive…just too much with medical bills piling up. I can see about getting you in before my landlord advertises a vacancy."

The offer came from nowhere, thus it took Buffy a few long seconds to understand what Fred was saying. She didn't know why, but she'd never imagined getting a place and paying actual rent. Rent for more than a room and a toilet and those funny chocolate mints housekeeping left on the pillow. Rent for a place to live.

_A place to live. _

In Los Angeles. In a city that wasn't home.

"I'd…I'd need a job," she said softly. "I…my…Spike, he left me money. A lot of money. More money than…well, I don't wanna know where he got it. It's not important. But he left it for me."

Fred nodded and didn't ask questions.

"It'll run out, though," Buffy concluded, subconsciously flattening a palm against her stomach. It didn't help, pressing down upon her sore skin, but for whatever reason, touching where it hurt made her feel momentarily better. As though she were in charge. "Eventually it'll run out."

"I can get you a job," Fred said again.

"Okay…so what are you, the Good Will Fairy?"

The girl's cheeks flooded with red. "I…uhhh, sorry. But I can get you a job. Truly. Assuming you don't mind libraries…"

Buffy couldn't help it; she laughed. It hurt to laugh, but she laughed anyway. The past two years of her life had been spent in libraries. She knew the Dewey Decimal System by heart. If there was one place she felt at home, it was a library. "No," she clarified, waving dismissively at Fred's confused look. "No, I—ummm. I don't mind libraries. Not at all. I just…this seems surreal, you know? I show up and…you think you can get me a decent place to live and a steady income? This sort of stuff never happens. Not in the world I live in, anyway."

The brunette's blush grew deeper. "I know it's a logistical anomaly," she replied self-consciously. "Even as I say this, my brain is scrambling to calculate the odds, and the probability is zero. And Buffy…if you'd rather not take the apartment or whatever job I can manage for you at the library, I won't be offended. I know we just met and this is all very new for you. Or…no, it's all very new for _me._ Not you. But I really do…want to help. In any way I can. I can't promise the job at the library would be anything exciting or beyond re-shelving misplaced books, but it's better than flipping burgers, in my opinion."

"Seconded."

"A-and the room…well, like I said, it's bigger than my place…not that I live in the best neighborhood, but—"

"I'm sure it's perfect."

Fred flashed a bright, sincere smile and nodded enthusiastically. "It's big," she said again, as though that was the main selling point. "He had me over for tea once and it's—"

"Big," Buffy finished for her, warding off a flinch. Her legs didn't seem to want to stand.

"Yes. And nice."

"It'll only be me, if I get the place." But already, Buffy was envisioning hanging up punching bags and setting mats along the floor—making the space she'd never seen livable for someone like her. Someone who would need the extra room for stretching and aerobics. For keeping herself in shape even if she didn't plan to actively patrol while living in Los Angeles. Something told her she would need to exert at least a little energy while she was here, lest she go mad with inactivity.

Her muscles, however, whined at the thought of exertion, and her stomach felt prone to chuck out the cereal she'd just finished eating.

Though it went against every natural instinct, not to mention what she'd told Fred last night, Buffy began to consider the wisdom of avoiding the doctor's office, especially while she had money. She was damn near certain her body was betraying her on grounds of a mystical level, but there was ostensibly no harm in seeing if human pain killers could do any good.

However, this line of thought likely meant the hospital, and Buffy hated hospitals. The last one in which she'd been had nearly killed her, that being literally, thanks to Der Kindestod. Were she home and surrounded by familiarity, she was certain she would fight to her last breath before succumbing to medical care. But here, there was no mom to worry over her or friends to annoy her or watcher to clean his glasses. She was in an unfamiliar place with a person she'd only just met. A person who was defying the convention that the inherent root to humanity was wickedness and cruelty. Fred only had a sincere desire to help.

"I'll talk to my landlord," Fred offered. "He likes me. I'm sure I can get you in."

Buffy nodded and forced a smile to her lips. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. You—"

"Saved your life."

Fred grinned. "I've been saying that a lot, huh?"

"It's no big. I just…" Another wave of nausea crashed over her. Buffy bit her lip, willing her eyes shut as she rode it out. "I…"

"Buffy?" The smile was gone from the girl's face. "What is it? Are you okay? Is it…is there something I can get you?"

_I need Spike. _

These weren't the words she said, however. Every nerve in her body screamed for him, but she couldn't say it. She couldn't make out _why._ Only that she needed him. She needed him now, and desperately. Spike would make everything better.

God, just thinking of him hurt. What had he done to her?

"I…"

"Okay, that's it," Fred said suddenly, her voice hardened with resolve. "I didn't say anything all night or this morning, but this…this just isn't _normal._ I'm taking you to the doctor."

Even though Buffy had just reached the same conclusion, it was her instinct to protest.

"Ah, ah," Fred cut Buffy off before she even had a chance to object, miming zipped lips with a stern, almost maternal look in her eyes. "No fightsies. We're going to the doctor."

The girl could give Willow a run for her money when it came to Resolve Face.

"Okay," Buffy agreed. "Okay."

Her consent was the cue her body needed. She felt the floor slip from under her, felt cool ceramic tile beneath her hands, and watched the world spiral into an endless twist of color before blacking out completely.

* * *

Were Buffy in less pain, there was every chance she would have found Fred's incredibly-tame-but-very-heartfelt curses even more amusing than she already did. As it was, the fact that it hurt to laugh took some of the merriment out—some, but not much. She refused to keep from giggling where giggling was appropriate. If this affliction took her mirth away, she would surely wither to nothing.

"Stupid, lousy, good-for-nothing doctors," Fred cursed, seizing Buffy's arm on a whim and dragging it around her neck. "Here…lean on me."

_Right, because I didn't feel pitiful enough. _

However, Buffy didn't argue. She was grateful for the aid. Her legs felt as though they were about to give out.

The trip to the hospital had consumed the day, eating away at sunlight and casting the veil of night upon them before the staff ultimately decided there was nothing medically wrong with her and showed her the door. Without insurance or anything except the cold cash in Buffy's pocket and what meager earnings Fred immediately offered to put forward, ignoring Buffy's protests, there was no logical reason to keep her overnight.

"All in your head, my butt," Fred all but snarled. "I swear, I have half a mind to go back there and give _Dr.__Jenkins_ a…piece of my mind."

"That's a lot of your mind going around," Buffy observed. "Oh—ouch!"

"What?" the girl demanded, panicked. "What? Did I run you into something? I'm sorry—"

"No…it's just…_God,_ this thing is getting worse."

"Are you okay? Should we go back?"

Going back wasn't really an option. They'd already deduced her problem wasn't a medical one, and after getting into some sticky questions about family history, had told her they were very sorry, but there was nothing they could do.

She was homeless, after all. Another teen walking the street. Why should they worry about her?

"You wanna try the free clinic?" Fred asked. "We might—"

"No," Buffy replied, sharper than she intended. "I…"

It was fitting, she supposed, that she only become truly aware of her surroundings when there was nothing to do about it. Her slayer senses were so fogged, it would take the world's largest defroster to get her seeing clearly again. Otherwise, Buffy was certain she wouldn't have allowed Fred to drag her down a poorly-lit street on a side of town which looked less than reputable.

This was bad.

"Oh God," Buffy said.

"What?"

"Where are we?"

"Not far. About three blocks from the metro rail. We'll be home soon."

"We didn't come this way."

"Shortcut."

Shortcuts. Always the shortcuts. Vamps dug the shortcuts; it was how most stragglers ended up dead.

"Fred…" Buffy sucked in a deep breath, summoned all her strength, and shoved the girl away. _"Run." _

"What?"

_"Run!" _

The command was punctuated with a timely, familiar roar, and then the world around her fell to chaos. Buffy fell face-first onto the cement, her palms bracing her fall but her lack of vigor doing little to cushion her as she rolled into a useless lump beside the curb.

The sound of Fred's screams filled the air. The dumb girl wasn't running.

"GET OUT OF HERE!"

"Buffy—"

Another vampiric snarl tore through the night. Buffy forced herself onto her back and attempted a flip-up to her feet. Every nerve in her body screamed in protest, but she forced herself to ignore the pain. She shoved everything aside—forced her exhausted mind to focus. To regroup.

"Yes, yes, run," a particularly nasty voice said encouragingly. "We'll help your friend, here, home."

"You sonofa—"

_"__Fred__!" _

Then something amazing happened. It was, perhaps, the most welcome feeling in the world. One second her body was about to collapse inward, and the next thing she knew, the pain began to recede. Not gone entirely, but the strain on her insides softened and the brittle feebleness of her aching muscles hardened with familiar strength and resolution. Buffy seized it, grasped it, and held on. She was on her feet in an instant, delivering a swift kick to the vamp charging at her left while rounding the other vamp with a punch strong enough to send him into the nearest waste-bin.

Perhaps she was in so much pain she could no longer feel it; she didn't know. All Buffy knew was she had to get Fred out of there.

Now.

"Oh my God," the girl said. "Buffy…are you…?"

"I swear, if you don't run, I will personally break all your bones so leaving the house is not an option." Buffy pointed and flicked her brows meaningfully. "Run. Don't stop running."

"I can't leave you—"

"Did you not hear the 'breaking your bones' thing? I'm fine." This last point she demonstrated by kicking her leg backward just in time to send the vamp who had been creeping up on her back into the waste-bin. _"Run." _

Buffy didn't have time to dissect whether the look on Fred's face was relief at her apparent resurgence of strength or hurt at her callousness, and though it bothered her, she didn't let herself dwell. There would be time to apologize later.

"Dayum," one of the vamps drawled, climbing wearily to his feet. "See that, Frank? She sent yours off runnin'."

The vamp in the waste-bin said nothing, but he didn't look pleased.

"All right, boys," she said, "step on up. I've been itching for a good fight."

And then everything around her fell deathly still, and the world became unglued.

"Be careful what you wish for."

A hand seized her wrist and suddenly she was jerked around, tumbling hard and fast into familiar arms, her breasts suddenly pressed against a chest she knew well. She felt him gasp at the contact, felt his pleasured sigh along with the tremble she knew so well. And the second his eyes crashed with hers, every cell in her weary body burst into song.

"Spike…"

"Careful what you wish for," he said again, his eyes lingering for a moment on her mouth. "'Cause if it's a fight you're itchin' for, pet, I'd be more 'n happy to oblige."

Then his lips crashed upon hers, and everything around her melted away.

**TBC**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **The rumors of this fic's death have been greatly exaggerated. It's NOT dead, nor will it be. I'm a good ways through the next chapter.

I do, however, have eighteen hours of coursework ahead of me and betas who have very strenuous schedules. Not to mention my actual job. I beg your patience and thank your understanding. I know this fic has been a long-time coming, but I assure you, I am not letting it go. It will not remain unfinished.

Thanks to everyone who's still reading/reviewing. To everyone who hasn't given up on me. I appreciate your understanding and support more than I could ever hope to put into words. Thank you.

**Previously:** Fred convinced Buffy to go to the doctor after the unknown pain in her gut became so debilitating she could barely move. The doctor, having no way to diagnose vampiric claims, sent them on their way. While taking an ill-advised shortcut home, Fred and a sickly slayer find themselves the target of two fledging-vampire attacks. Fred flees for her life on Buffy's command, just missing the entrance of the only man in the world who could make the Slayer's pain go away.

**Chapter 20**

True, it wasn't the longest kiss on record. Not even the most romantic, all things considered. They were locked together in a stolen moment, nipping at each other's lips as the two fledgling vamps stared in confusion. And for all the world, Spike couldn't think to complain. This wasn't exactly how he'd pictured making his grand entrance, but his plans were typically shot to hell anyhow, and he wasn't one to deny himself when the girl he loved was so willingly squirming in his arms and gasping into his mouth.

"Spike. _Spike._ Oh God…" He felt wetness against his skin and reared back in astonishment. Tears burned rivers down her cheeks. She was crying. Buffy was crying for him. "Are you real?" she demanded, consuming his lips before he could reply. "Is this real?"

God, if he hadn't been hard before, he was certain he could cut glass now. All he wanted to do was shove her against the nearest wall and lose himself in her body. The heat of her practically burned a hole in his jeans. She was everywhere, and he was drunk on her.

But they weren't alone. He didn't particularly fancy trying to shag his lady while avoiding blows from a couple of bystanders.

"Mhmm," he agreed, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Real as the fangy bloke behind you."

Buffy blinked but didn't have time to react; Spike seized her by the shoulders and tossed her aside, his fist immediately sinking into the attacking vampire's gut. The fledging keeled over with a gasp only to be kicked to the ground the next second, the whole of him dissolving in dust with the force of a flying stake.

Spike glanced up. Buffy had regained her footing.

"I hate being interrupted," she grumbled, breaking into a run for him. Only it wasn't for him and he knew it. Spike ducked and she rolled off his back, her legs slamming into the second vampire, who soared across the alleyway and smashed into the brick wall of the neighboring building. "Hello! Ruining a happy moment here!"

"I'll bloody well say." Spike flashed her a winning smile and dove his hand into his duster pocket, retrieving a stake. A quick flash and the second vamp joined the first, his ashes scattered along the pavement. "Serves him bloody right for interruptin' a snog with my lady."

He didn't know whether to be surprised or disappointed at the fallen look on Buffy's face. In truth, he'd expected their reunion to come with a quick punch to the jaw rather than a tearful collapse. The past few weeks with Buffy had made him especially privy to the wide range of her emotional reactions. She either fell soft or hardened up on instinct, and it was a coin's toss which way the pendulum swung.

He frowned. He truly did have a problem mixing metaphors.

"What are you doing here, Spike?" she asked, her eyes heavy. Her lips wet and aching to be kissed. God, he just wanted to kiss her. He'd waited so long. The hurt was gone now and the rest didn't matter. He just wanted to kiss her.

But he didn't kiss her. The fact that he was able to keep both feet firmly planted on the ground was more than admirable, in such circumstances. "You know what I'm doing here."

"I left."

"Yeah, an' I said I'd come after you, pet. What? You think those were jus' words?"

She stiffened righteously and crossed her arms, her green eyes betraying conflict she couldn't hide. "I didn't ask you to come for me," she said, flipping her hair.

Spike perked a brow. "An' I din't ask you to leave. What of it?"

"Spike—"

"Don't start by telling me you're not happy to see me, love. I know the better of it." He took a step forward, unable to keep from sizing her up. "The way you kissed me…you've been pining for your Spike, haven't you?"

"That's none of your business."

"Buffy…"

"I mean—" She cut off abruptly and rolled her eyes at herself. "Oh for Pete's sake, who am I kidding?" And without warning, she jumped into his arms, her hands framing his face and dragging his mouth down to hers. The second her lips brushed his, the world around him melted and the monster in his chest purred.

This was how it should have been. Every day since he claimed her. Every sodding second. Buffy was his. She was _his,_ and he'd missed her so much the pain in his gut had trembled at the weight of the ache in his heart. There was nothing about her he didn't love; he saw that now. The way she smelled of raspberry shower-wash, the way she moaned into his mouth when he sucked at her tongue, the way she subconsciously danced against his erection. The way she snarked at him while trying to contain giggles. The way she clung to him when she wept. The fire in her eyes. The witty retort on her lips. Her sodding holier-than-thou attitude and her perpetual martyr complex. He loved it all; loved her. She was bright and vivid and alive, and she was his.

He had her in his arms again. There would be no letting her go after this.

"What took you so long?" she demanded breathlessly, nibbling on his lower-lip. "You…g'nah."

His hand had found her breast. The small, fleshy roundness of her, her nipple hard against his palm. And when he massaged her—Christ, the sounds she made. It was enough to make a grown man come in his trousers.

"You tell a girl…you'll find her…and…and it's been—"

"Too long."

"Yes. Yes, too long."

"Din't think you wanted to be found, love," Spike told her truthfully, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before his wandering lips began a southbound trek. If he wasn't careful, he was going to end up fucking her against one of the alley-walls, and though excusable given the circumstances, she deserved better. "You ran off."

Buffy's head rolled back, his mouth worshipping her throat. "I…I had to."

"Mmm," he hummed. "Why?"

"Because…I…oh God, I don't even…_ahhh!" _

Spike grinned and licked the bite mark again. "You like that, baby?" he whispered. "Bet this pretty li'l neck has been achin' for my fangs."

"I've been aching all over," she retorted, fisting his hair and jerking his head upward so she could kiss him again. And then she froze—she went positively rigid against his mouth, and he knew without needing to see her eyes narrow or her brow furrow in concentration that the tide had changed.

It didn't stop him from whimpering in protest when she pulled away and quickly put herself out of kissing distance. "I've been aching all over, actually," she said. "Until now."

"I'd think that'd be a good thing, pet," Spike replied weakly. "Unless you want the hurt to go on."

"You don't understand—"

His brows perked. "Don't I? That twisted feelin' in your gut? The way your muscles cramp an' how it hurts to bloody breathe? Got so used to breathin' around you I rightly forgot I had the option of not. Hurt to get up. Hurt to move. Hurt to eat. Hurt to…there wasn' much that din't hurt, was there? Had to give up my smokes 'cause the whole process was—"

Buffy's eyes were wide with confusion. "So it's…it's been that way for you, too?"

"Not exactly what I'd call a picnic, eh, Slayer?"

"But it's gone now. I was…just a few minutes ago, and then you were…" She paused, every inch of her suddenly weighted with suspicion. He couldn't say it was altogether unexpected. "What did you do?" she demanded. "What's making me—"

"Us," Spike corrected.

"Whatever. What did—"

"You're mine, Buffy. That's what I did. I made you mine. I claimed you."

Off her look, he knew she had no idea what he was talking about, and while it didn't surprise him, he found he was still irritated. If any human should be privy to ancient vampire rituals, it was the Slayer.

"You…claimed…what's that?" Her nose scrunched adorably. "I'm not exactly free territory. You can't just stake a flag in me and declare me Property of Spike."

He warded off a grin. Something told him smiling at her would be a mistake. "Din't need a flag, pet," he replied. "Got fangs."

"So you…" Buffy inhaled sharply, her hand flying to the mark on her throat. "You…the bite…that's what…you…"

"It was instinct; it wasn't planned. You were…you were under me…surroundin' me…" Spike sighed and forced himself to keep from falling back into the memory of her hot little pussy gripping him, drenching him, marking his body forever. The lost look in her eyes—the venom in her voice in spite of her raucous need for what he offered. She'd wanted the memory of Angel fucked out of her, and the hint that Spike was nothing more than a stand-in for what she truly wanted had reared the possessive demon inside. He'd needed to make her his, and he had. "You were…you were around me. An' I couldn't…I couldn't stand the thought that you were jus' fucking me to get _him_ outta your head."

Buffy wet her lips. "So you…claimed me."

"Yeah."

"And that's why…with the sick? You've made me physically _crave_ you because you wanted me to—"

"I jus' said it wasn't planned."

"Well, okay then. So what now? How do you undo it?"

The idea she wanted to undo it all nearly brought him to tears. Spike's jaw hardened, his emotions shoved aside in the namesake of pride. He wouldn't let her see how her words cut. "You don't," he ground out.

"Don't what?"

"Undo it. There is no bloody _undoing_ it. We call it _claiming_ for a reason, honey. Vampires mate for life…or unlife. When they choose their mate, there's no undoing it." He flashed her a particularly ugly smile, spreading his arms wide. "You're stuck with me."

For long seconds, there was nothing but the heavy crash of her heady breaths and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes shone, flecked with a warped fury of fear and horror. "But…you…you were with Dru—"

Spike laughed bitterly. "Well, I never claimed Dru, did I?"

"Why…why not?"

"She wasn't mine, Slayer. She belonged to her precious _daddy._ Jus' like Darla. Every bint who so much as catches a whiff of that bastard all but throws themselves…" He broke off, shaking his head. "You were…I couldn't bear it. Not another woman I…not _you,_ Buffy. Not you, too. So I claimed you. Made sure you an' Angel and the whole sodding world knew you are _mine,_ not his."

And there it was. The anger bubbling beneath the surface of confusion finally touched the air. In a blink, all came thoroughly unwound. "You unbelievable bastard!" she screamed, her fist connecting with his jaw and sending him across the alleyway and into the front of a large trash dispenser. "I was _grieving._ I _killed_ him. Do you get that? Do you understand? I _killed_ him. This wasn't a pissing contest—whose fangs are bigger—"

Spike wiped his bleeding lip with his duster sleeve, ignoring the aches shooting through his tired body as he climbed to his feet. Honestly, he'd more or less expected this. In a relationship such as theirs, no heated conversation could go without a dose of violence. "I jus' _told_ you it wasn't planned, you daft twig," he growled. "It wasn't planned. Hell, you're the one who jumped me that night, remember? I'd tortured myself over you as it was. Kissing you. Touching you. All that song an' dance we did back in Sunnyhell an' you were so bloody far from me. Even when I was inside you, I couldn't touch you. So I claimed you."

"I didn't ask for it!"

He huffed indignantly, throbbing with hurt. "Yeah, well, I din't ask to be claimed back, so we're even."

She blinked dumbly. "What? Did not!"

A self-satisfied smirk wormed its way to his lips. He hooked two fingers under the neckline of his tee and jerked the fabric down until his shoulder was bared. The shoulder marked with her teeth. "Claiming's a simple ritual for what it does," he said casually. "For vamps, at leas'…not sure for other demons. All we need is a taste of blood an' two words. I say, 'mine' and you say—"

"Yours…"

The word rode out on a gasp—a small, breathless revelation. She remembered, then. She remembered the second it happened. The second she became his.

Spike nodded. "Right. If you hadn't said that, we wouldn't be here."

"I didn't know—"

"'Course not. Doesn't mean rot if you knew it or not." Spike broke, shaking his head. "The funny thing? The claim would've worn away if you hadn't given me this." His fingers grazed the bite mark before releasing the neckline altogether. "Claims gotta be accepted an' reciprocated. It's a…for lack of better words, a marriage of equals. I can't take you by force, an' that's why your consent is so important. And in claiming me back, we acknowledge that we're the same. I'm yours, you're mine." Spike glanced down, unable to withstand the horror in her eyes anymore. "The pain…it goes away after a while. The pain you've—_we've_ been going through. It'll fade. But we've essentially bonded on the principle that we belong to each other, so it's bloody unnatural for us to be apart."

"Oh my God…"

"It won' always be like this," he said again. "It's jus'…it's too new now. Like a kid, right? Needs his mum all the time at firs'…but as he gets older, he becomes more self-reliant."

Buffy was shaking so hard it was a wonder the ground beneath her didn't quake. "Oh my God," she said again. "And this…this can't be…I can't…" She looked up sharply, her eyes glistening with fresh tears. And Christ, all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and hold her until the pain went away. Until she realized he wasn't the devil and he would be the one to stay at her side for all eternity. He would love her hard and well. He already did.

"You let me leave," she said suddenly. "You let me come out here and…you let me be in such…in such

"What?" Spike blinked, his hands coming up. "Slayer—"

"You knew I was going to leave! How could you let me leave without telling me this? Without—"

"I din't—"

"I have the note. Unless there was someone else named _Spike_ staying in our room—"

"I didn't know it'd be so bleeding painful!" he barked. "How could I? Never been claimed before. Never had a mate before. No one told me how this worked!"

"You seem pretty well-read—"

"An' that's just it, Buffy. _Well-read._ Had a little time, didn't I? Caught up on my homework. I would've been here sooner if…" His voice trailed off on another cynical laugh, his arms going up, his mind railroading into a brick wall. "You know what? Sod it. Damned if I do an' damned if I bloody don't. You think this has been a picnic for me? Think again, kitten. I know you don' love me. Know this isn't what you wanted. Know you'd rather spend eternity with anyone but me." Spike sighed and met her eyes. "I can't change what we did. But…Buffy, we can…"

He didn't fulfill the thought. The phantom of her voice turning him away was too painful; he couldn't bear it to harden into reality.

Perhaps he was fortunate, then, that the air split with a timely scream.

"Oh God," Buffy gasped, whirling around. "Fred."

_Then again, _Spike mused wearily as he watched his girl tear down the alleyway. _Maybe not. _

**TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** Another update! From _me_!!! I know, I'm surprised, too!

Well, not really. If I don't let myself get distracted with silly things like school and responsibility and/or write other fics, I actually do get things done. Heehee.

I might've mentioned this in a previous author's note, but even though I do rely on AtS characters in this story, no knowledge of the AtS plotline is necessary. If it's easier to consider Fred and, as you'll soon note, Gunn as original characters, feel free. Since this story starts before the AtS plotline began, I intend to treat them as though they have never before been "on screen."

My thanks to Tami, EB, Mari, and Megan for looking over this for me. smoochies

**Chapter 21**

A thousand terrible images flashed through Buffy's head as her suddenly rejuvenated body sprinted across an endless stretch of pavement. Visions of Fred on the ground. Fred in pain. Fred holding her bleeding stomach. Fred's wide, brown eyes finding hers, wordlessly demanding how such a thing could happen. How, after all the kindness she'd shown a stranger in the past day, she could be repaid like this.

"Fred!"

A scream directed her feet. Buffy took a sharp turn to the right and found herself lost in another shadowy alley, chasing phantoms.

"Fred! _Fred!" _

There was a flurry of movement and she was suddenly road-blocked by a human wall. A gang of ten or so, dressed in street clothes barricaded her pathway, staring at her with intent which couldn't be mistaken. Buffy jerked to a sudden halt, her chest heaving, her eyes stretching wide with confusion.

It took several minutes to register that she was on the business end of several crossbows. These kids wielded crossbows. There was something very much of the wrong here.

"Okay," she said slowly, her lungs fighting for air. "You got my attention. Either you're here to help, or you're keeping me from my friend. What's the what?"

"The girl's ours, vampire," one of the kids spat, hoisting his crossbow higher to make sure it was seen. "She's safe; can't say the same for you."

Buffy's brows hit her hairline. "Okay, what?"

"We saw you," another voice supplied. "Can't do much in this part of town we won't see."

"You saw me, what?" she retorted. "_Dusting_ vamps? Yeah. That's kind of what I do. Fred's with me—and as comforting as those weapons might be, I promise she'll be safer with the Slayer at her side."

The first guy spoke again, the crossbow shifting slightly in his arms. "The Slayer?" he repeated. "What's that? Some kinda demon?"

Buffy stared at him blankly. "Okay, how is it that the people on the _hellmouth_ are more in the know than you? Are you telling me I _actually_ needed to move to a big city to have a secret identity?" Her hands found her hips, her head tilting. "Superman was right all along. Who knew?"

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Where's Fred?" she countered, her eyes blazing dangerously. "I need to see she's okay. And believe me, if you don't cooperate, you'll see how very ineffective those weapons are in the face of a pissed-off slayer."

The two apparent ringleaders exchanged a telling glance.

"We could stay here and chat this out until the sun comes up and then you can see how very much I don't dust," Buffy offered happily. "Just let me see my friend unless you _want_ to see some violence."

There was nothing for a few seconds. They simply stared at each other.

"It's all right, Briggs," a voice said from the left. Buffy whirled around—someone was emerging from a patch of shadows. Another kid, though _kid_ was becoming a relative term in her mind. He was early twenties, perhaps, judging by looks alone. His skin was dark, his eyes heavy, carrying the weight of having grown up much too quickly—a feeling Buffy knew intimately. She knew without being told; she was looking at the actual leader. His authority couldn't be denied. Without a word being uttered, the rest of the gang were immediately put at ease. 

"She ain't no vamp," the newcomer said.

Buffy nodded shakily. "Just now catching on, are you?"

"We were tailing those two you and your boy took out."

"Tailing? In a big, silent way?"

"We're good at keepin' invisible if we want. Find it's easier to kill vamps if we're stealthy." He held her gaze a minute longer before turning to address the one he'd called Briggs. "Go get the girl."

Briggs wasn't as easily convinced. "We don't know jack about this, Gunn."

"We know this chick ain't no vamp," came the retort. "Go get the girl."

There was a long pause before anyone moved. Briggs didn't draw his guarded eyes away from the Slayer until it was physically impossible to keep staring at her. Then he was gone, and despite herself, Buffy found her shoulders slumping with relief and a sigh rolling off her lips. Briggs might not be the leader, but somehow she didn't think he discriminated against whom he killed as long as the vamp toll was higher at the end of the day.

People like that terrified her. While she hadn't run into any vigilante vamp-hunters in the first year of her Calling, Merrick had warned her that certain areas of Los Angeles were riddled with displaced teens who took matters of supernatural law into their own hands. They weren't to be trusted, for they trusted no one but themselves. Outsiders, even if the outsiders fought on the side of good, were only given slight favor above the society which had so often spat in their faces. She wasn't supposed to interfere with their operation; there was no talking them down or enlightening them with reason and knowledge. She was going to do her duty, and wish the best for everyone else.

"Sorry 'bout Briggs," the other guy—Gunn—said, stepping forward. "We don't see moves like yours that aren't a vamp's or a demon's. But I saw it. You fought them."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed shortly. "I fought them. And funny thing, I didn't see you at all."

"Told you. We ain't seen unless we wanna be seen. We were tailin' those vamps. I was about to send two of mine in as bait, then you and the girl came along."

She nodded, her eyes narrowing. "So you decided to use us."

"We would've helped if help was needed. You had it under control." Gunn motioned to the remaining vigilantes, and in one stroke they all lowered their weapons. They operated seamlessly; a machine which knew how to effectively use its parts.

"You grabbed Fred, then?"

"Fred the girl?"

She nodded.

"Girl was freaked," Gunn confirmed. "Screamin' things about vamps. She said you were doubled over in pain, so when we saw you tossing the vamps around like dolls…" He trailed off with a frown, his brown eyes growing wide as though only then realizing something wasn't right. "Where is he?"

"Where's who?" she asked quickly, her tone laced with faux-innocence.

"Your boy. The one you macked on before remembering there were demons in the alley."

Buffy stiffened, every nerve in her body gearing toward the offense. Her racing mind attempted to recount the last few minutes—what had happened before she took off after Fred—and she couldn't remember if Spike had gone into game face or not. She hadn't noticed; she hadn't cared. She'd just been relieved to see him. More than relieved—had she not regained her emotions, she would have thrown herself at his feet and begged him never to leave her again.

Then there was the revelation. The cause of her pain. The reason she'd felt, for the past few days, she was being gutted from the inside out. Like someone was dicing her up. Felt the need for him beyond anything she'd ever known. They were linked by blood. The night in the hotel—the night which had forever changed her life—had indeed _forever_ changed her life. She'd thought just having him inside her was an awakening. Turned out the fangs he'd buried in her throat and the words he'd whispered meant more than fleeting, sexual possession. She should have known; with vamps, it was always biting and blood and if it wasn't for food, there had to be a different reason Spike had staked his claim on her.

He'd claimed her, and not only had she accepted, she'd claimed him right back.

Buffy cleared her throat. "He's not here."

Even as she spoke the words, she knew she was lying. Spike wouldn't leave her. Not now.

Not with this thing between them.

This was, of course, confirmed the next second. She felt him before she heard him—felt him before the telling hiss of a match lighting filled the alley. The warm glow of a cigarette burned in the shadows. She didn't know how long he'd been there; her nerves were still flamed from having touched him. Having kissed him. Having been near him at all. Everything was on overdrive.

"Almost right, pet," Spike drawled, blowing out a cool stream of smoke. "Don' think I'd let you run off an' have all the fun, do you?"

Gunn started in surprise, and he didn't look like a guy easily taken by surprise.

"What the _fuck?"_ came from the crowd.

"Man, this night is fuckin' crazy," affirmed another.

Spike's brows arched appraisingly as he strolled out of the shadows, situating himself firmly at Buffy's side. The unspoken implication both warmed and irritated her. He was staking his territory—he was making it known that any quarrel they had with her, they had with him, as well. And while she appreciated the support, there was nothing here she couldn't handle.

Especially with her body still buzzing from what had happened earlier. What she'd learned.

Gunn shot a warning glance to Buffy. "This your boy?"

She blinked. "I thought you saw him."

"Thought I saw a lot. Can't be too careful, can we?" He inhaled sharply and stepped forward, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "Where'd he come from?"

Spike took his cigarette between his index and middle finger, rocking slightly on his heels, as he sized the other man up. "You think your lot's the only ones good at slinkin' in the shadows, mate?" he asked. "Don't feature letting my girl outta my sight too long. Rough neighborhood, an' all that."

"Think we both know she can handle herself."

"Mhmmm," Spike purred, taking another hit of nicotine. "With lots of li'l boys runnin' around with crossbows an' knives, thinkin' she's a demon?"

Apparently, the idiot vampire had never taken the course in not pissing off people with pointy weapons. "Little what?" an angry voice demanded. "Does he know who the fuck we are?"

"I don't think he cares," Gunn answered, not taking his eyes off the Brit. "So, what's the story? You one, too?"

"Depends," Spike replied coolly. "One what?"

But Buffy knew exactly what Gunn meant, and she wasn't about to let Spike dig himself an early grave. Not only would it be redundant, it was her job. If anyone got staking-Spike privilege, it was her. She was his mate, after all.

"He is," she confirmed with a nod. "He's a slayer, too."

She wisely ignored the half-shocked, half-amused look she earned with that particular lie. Meeting Spike's eyes now would be very much of the bad. She just hoped he got over it fast enough to make the transition from vampire-to-slayer believable. If Gunn hadn't seen Spike's bumpies, they had every shot of getting out of this unscathed.

Especially since the gang seemed to have no knowledge whatsoever about slayers. If they could pass off the notion that slayers were chosen haphazardly by the PTB, Spike's super-strength wouldn't be nearly as difficult to explain.

To her relief, Spike didn't rebuke the notion or openly question where she got off spreading things like that around. Instead, he offered a swift nod and said, "Yeah. That's right. I'm a slayer. Buffy an' me, we're the slayers. The two in LA, or what all. We were jus' having a moment when those nasty, evil, _disgusting_ buggers decided to interrupt."

Buffy rolled her eyes. _Lay it on thick much? _

"—they came after us with their fangs, 'cause that's what vamps do, y'know, an'—"

"Spike!" She elbowed him swiftly and flashed Gunn an apologetic smile. "He—umm. Gets a little…excited when we talk about the…the killing of…evil things."

"'S my bread an' butter," Spike agreed, his fingers absently caressing his ribs. "Bloody hell, Slayer, you forget your strength sometimes."

Gunn's eyes narrowed warily, and though it was more than obvious he was growing more uncomfortable with this by the second, he seemed strangely willing to let it slide. "So," he said. "What's the deal with slayers?"

"Yeah," came a voice of unrest from the crowd. Several kids had raised their weapons again. "If you two ain't demons—"

"We're Chosen warriors," Spike said proudly, puffing out his chest and tossing an arm around Buffy's shoulder. "Me an' my girl here. Chosen two. Selected by the wankers upstairs to even out the cosmic odds. Demon fighters with demon strength, an' all that."

"It's a thing," Buffy said quickly, relieved beyond nothing else when Briggs stepped back into the alley by way of an open warehouse door, dragging Fred by the arm.

And suddenly there was an out. She had what she wanted. She had Fred.

They had to get out of here before Spike said something notably unsoulful and got them all in even more trouble. 

"Oh thank God," she breathed, tearing from her vampire's side. "Fred!"

The brunette's eyes filled with tears the second they met hers, relief flooding her face. "Buffy!" she gasped, jerking free of Briggs's hold to meet her halfway. And before she could blink, Buffy found herself with an armful of Fred, who trembled and clung to her as though they'd been separated for years. "I'm so sorry," the girl swore. "I tried to explain. I tried to tell them you weren't a vampire, but—"

"Buffy a vampire?" Spike drawled, snickering. "There's a pretty thought."

The comment earned an awkward pause and several chary glances.

"And by pretty," he continued, "I mean…nasty an' evil an' not at all good, 'cause then I'd have to kill her, an'—"

"How are you?" Fred demanded, releasing Buffy from her bear hug long enough to visually verify she wasn't bleeding out of every pore or about to collapse on the pavement. "I didn't wanna run. I didn't—"

"I told you to run," Buffy reminded her softly. "You did the right thing."

"But you were hurt. You were—"

She shook her head. "It's cool. I'm good now."

"Gunn," Briggs said suddenly, "who the fuck is that?"

Buffy whirled around, her instincts flaring. Spike stood more than ten feet away. If the gang was growing suspicious, they needed to make a quick exit. Quick meaning _now._ She had Fred; she didn't exactly want to stick around and make conversation with a bunch of street-fighters who didn't know vamps from non-vamps, ambiguities aside. It took Briggs's voice to remind her he was the one she didn't trust.

Well, the one she didn't trust the most.

"A slayer," Gunn replied, his voice weighted with misgiving. "Like the girl."

"Two slayers?"

"Apparently." 

Then Gunn turned back to Buffy, his eyes sharp and, for the first time, she became acutely aware of how intelligent he was. No matter the language he used or the group with which he ran, this man was not to be underestimated. He was sharp. He was suspicious. And for whatever reason, he was providing her an out. She knew it before he spoke. She knew what he was going to say.

And every inch of her filled with gratitude.

"So the two of you are slayers," he said slowly, nodding to Spike. "Think you can handle yourselves? Me and mine got more sweeps to do. People who _aren't_ slayers."

"Vamps to kill," Spike agreed eagerly, his eyes bright.

Buffy groaned inwardly. There was no way he was going to get over this _I'm-the-slayer_ thing.

Gunn tossed the vampire another glance, thickened with even more suspicion. "Right," he said. "So take the girl and get gone. And some advice? Not the best area to be makin' out, even if you two are slayers." He turned sharply to his gang and jerked his chin up. "Let's roll."

"Whoa, wait," Briggs protested. "We gonna let 'em go?"

"Not the enemy, bro," Gunn replied. "We're all on the same side, here."

"And we're gone," Buffy agreed, grabbing Fred's wrist. "We're all kinds of gone."

Briggs stared at her for a hard minute. "Right. Whatever. Don't let us catch you down here again."

"Oi! The Slayer's gotta go where she—we—"

Buffy rolled her eyes and seized Spike by the scruff of the neck with her other hand. "Don't worry," she shouted over her shoulder, dragging her people along with her. "I think this town is sufficiently big enough for the…all of us."

"Rough-housing, pet?" her vampire purred, wrenching free the second they turned a corner. 

"That's the last time you get to be a slayer," Buffy muttered.

"I take it I missed something?" Fred asked meekly.

"Oh, so much." Buffy sighed, reluctantly releasing the brunette's wrist. "Fred, Spike," she said, then returned in kind. "Spike, Fred. Fred's my friend. She let me stay at her place. And Spike's my…"

Spike swallowed audibly when she didn't complete the thought and shot her a speculative glance, but neither broke stride.

_Spike's my…_

Well, wasn't that the question of the hour?

"Pleased to meet you," Fred said quickly. "Can we do this somewhere that's not outside? I think I've had my share of vampires tonight."

A small smile tugged on Spike's lips, but thankfully, he didn't comment.

Instead, he laced his fingers through Buffy's, his palm against hers. He took her hand with such soft simplicity.

And without warning, the walls in Buffy's mind collapsed. Her heart flipped and the whole of her trembled. He could reduce her to nothing more than trembling female nerves with one little gesture. One little gesture which somehow meant the world.

_I think I've had my share, too. _

Not that it mattered; it didn't, and she didn't mean it anyway. Spike very clearly wasn't going anywhere. 

She'd have to kick his ass if he disappeared.

Especially now.

Not that he needed to know that.

Though something in his smile told her he already did.

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

"You've got to be bloody kidding me."

It took everything in him not to collapse to his knees. Not to wrap his arms around her middle. Not to turn into some simpering ninny right there at the doorstep of her little friend's apartment. He'd only just found her again—there was no way he was going to walk away now. Not with the taste of her in his mouth and the warmth of her burning his hands. He knew she was confused, and Christ it wasn't like he could blame her, but he couldn't abide the thought of being shut away again. After what they'd been through—after the pain they'd suffered for the want of each other—he wasn't about to let her out of his sight. Not without a hell of a brawl.

He knew Buffy realized the importance of the claim. They were mates. They were linked. His blood belonged to her. Everything he was belonged to her. Everything she was belonged to him. It was the way things were. The way they'd made things together.

He couldn't walk away now. Not tonight. Not ever.

Every contour of her gorgeous body was wrought with tension. She was prepared to fight. She would not compromise.

"I can't deal with this tonight," Buffy whispered, her gaze trained pointedly on a spot on the floor. "Please, Spike."

She wouldn't even look at him. Did she fear breaking if she saw the desperation in his eyes? Was she trying to hide from him? Bloody hell, he was so buggering inept at feeling through the claim. All his research had indicated an immediate perception into his girl's thoughts. Her blood was in him, linked to him, and he was supposed to know how to best care for her—what she felt, what she needed.

Though he hadn't the foggiest idea how that was supposed to work. The texts he'd studied hadn't said anything about sharing minds, and for that, he was glad. But he'd thought there would be something. Anything. A smidgeon as to what she felt. The tiniest trickle through their sacred connection allowing him to sense her emotions. Sense her _anything. _

He honestly didn't know what he'd expected. And though it would be infinitely easier to know what to do had the window to her mind opened and fed him her every thought in a clear, crisp monologue, figuring her out was a part of the mystery. A part of the fun. And he knew as well as anyone that listening to voices in one's head would eventually drive one barmy.

Then again, the distance she insisted on placing between them was doing that all on its own.

She was such a bloody enigma.

It was one of the many reasons he loved her.

"It's too much to take in tonight," she continued softly. "I can't…"

He took a mad, desperate step forward, silently imploring her to meet his eyes. "Buffy…you know what…there's no undoing it. We're—"

"You can say it as often as you like, I still need time."

"Forever, pet. You're mine."

Her head snapped up at that, her emerald eyes a gorgeous, tumultuous sea of confusion. "I'm not," she said shortly. "I'm _mine,_ Spike. I belong to me. You might've…put the whammy on me, but I'm still mine. I don't know what you want—"

"Yes, you do," he growled, seizing her by the chin. "You bloody well do, you—"

"I can't do this tonight. You can't just tell me everything's changed and expect me to take it with a smile and a nod. You can't—"

Spike's eyes narrowed, desperation colliding with anger. "Everything changed for me, too, you know. I didn't fuck you that night with a mind to claim you, you barmy twig. That was a mistake, an' you can't expect me to pay for it for the rest of eternity jus' because you need your bloody _space._ You begged for it an' I gave it to you. What more do you want from me?"

The harshness of his words were a slap; when her wounded eyes widened, he honestly didn't know if it was regret or satisfaction cementing his gut. Perhaps a spiraled mixture of both. 

"You're right," Buffy said, her voice clipped and, to her credit, fortified. That was his girl through and through. She refused to betray weakness. "I need space."

"Space isn't gonna change rot. We need each other."

Her gaze flashed. "I don't need—"

"Yeah? An' what happens when the pain in your gut becomes so bloody terrible—"

Buffy help up a hand, trembling. The small weight of her resting against the doorframe made her seem so far from him. He couldn't get into the apartment—couldn't just barge his way inside to claim what was his. No, little Fred hadn't extended an invite, and based on the way the brunette purposefully strode behind Buffy every few seconds, it was more than clear one wasn't forthcoming.

"It's just for tonight," Buffy said. And then, softer, "Let me have tonight. You're not going to leave town, are you?"

It'd bloody well serve her right if he did.

"No," Spike replied, his shoulders rolling back with the weight of a long sigh. "No, I'm not going anywhere. I'm on your leash, aren't I? Can't go anywhere without you."

Her eyes narrowed. "And the reasons for not doing this tonight just keep coming."

"Buffy—"

"You dumped this on me," she said, her argumentative tone falling flat with defeat. "I know…look, Spike, I know nothing can be done about it. I get that. Contrary to what pretty much all my teachers back in Sunnydale will tell you, I'm a pretty smart cookie. Tell me something once and I get it."

He shuffled. It was so much easier remaining angry with her when she was unreasonable. The sudden lack of quarrel in her voice drained him of his need to scream and throttle her. Rather, the hopelessness seeping into her eyes made his heart wither and his arms ache. She belonged against him, folded in his embrace. She belonged with her head resting at his shoulder and her breaths fanning his neck. And if she was going to deny him his right, she needed to be a bitch about it so he wouldn't feel like a prat for cutting her with words.

"Time's not gonna do rot," he said again, his voice smaller. "Won't change anything."

Buffy trembled with resolve. "This isn't about changing anything," she said softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "But if you want me to get to a place where I understand and…I just can't have you here. I'm sorry, Spike." She paused, a harsh, humorless laugh. "I don't know. I don't know _anything._ I've been waiting for you to find me for so long and then you did and you slam me with…with _this." _

"I found you, though," Spike replied, a pathetically hopeful smile tickling his lips. "Promised, din't I?"

"You promised. I didn't…I believed you'd try, but…I dunno." Another long sigh rippled down her spine. God, she looked so tired. So incredibly worn out. And he'd done that to her. "I left and I guess I thought you'd eventually think I wasn't worth it and…I dunno…maybe you'd go find Dru and leave me to it."

He would have been startled dumb if it weren't for the hot anger which immediately commanded his veins. "Dru?" he spat, eyes flaring dangerously. "You thought I'd go back…to _Dru?" _

To her credit, Buffy looked properly discomfited. "Well…I dunno."

"Not only did the bitch try to kill you, love, but have you forgotten the tiny incident of her sodding _nailing_ me to my bedroom wall?" He slammed an angry fist into the wall before he could help himself. "I told you before…before the fight, before we even left the Hellmouth, that me an' Dru were through."

"That was then," she said softly. "That was…before…"

"Before what?" he growled. "Before I fucked you? Yeah, Slayer, you're right. It was before then. It was well before I carted your arse out of Sunnyhell an' before I claimed you. An' if that din't bloody well seal it for me, then just being with _you_ sure as hell did. There isn't anything in this world or any other that could convince me back into her bed. She sodding killed me an' she tried…an' I've had _you."_ He sighed and glanced down. "I've had you. I'm spoiled for anyone else."

He felt it the second the air changed. Felt it the second her defenses crashed. The stiffness in her shoulders rolled into a softness only a few ever got to see. The tenderness he'd enjoyed in the few minutes they'd had together which weren't filled with confusion and arguing and hard fucking. He remembered taking her against the shower wall. Remembered the desperation with which she'd begged him to take her before she'd slipped out of his bed and run away from him.

She'd asked him to love her. She'd asked him, tugging at his fly, her eyes wide, to love her. To take her.

And now she was so far from him. She was so far. Thinking he could go back to Dru—that he could go to anyone. Thinking he could go from her and go anywhere else. Go anywhere but where she was. Be with anyone who wasn't with her. 

He didn't think he was being particularly secretive in the fact that he loved her. While the words were shy, he'd told her a thousand times with his hands and eyes and lips. He'd kissed her and moved inside her body and, even when they were miles apart, done his best to keep her properly cared for. He hadn't had much, but he'd given her whatever he could.

Money. Words. A promise.

A promise to find her.

She wasn't just his mate; she was so much more than that.

She was _Buffy,_ and he loved her.

"I'm sorry I left," she whispered, startling him out of his reverie. "I should have tried…I dunno. But it felt like I needed…I felt like I needed to leave. I thought you were confusing things for me. I'd just…I'd killed him…he'd come back and I'd killed him and I didn't know what to feel or how I should…and then there you were, being wonderful and confusing me even more, and I needed to get out."

There was no way for her to know how her words cracked him, shattering whatever was inside. "I would've given you whatever you needed," Spike told her softly.

"I know. But I needed to leave to…I needed…"

"Buffy—"

"I was sorry after I left. Almost immediately after I left." A hand rose to her throat, her fingers tenderly massaging the bite mark gracing her skin. "And when I saw you again tonight, it…I was so happy. But Spike, this…this _forever_ thing? I'm…I'm what, exactly? We're linked by blood and I understand that, but it's going to take me time to…" She sighed again, shaking. "I'm not the sort of person who can just accept these things. I don't know what it means…for you or for me. I don't…I just got out of this thing with Angel. I don't know if I'm ready for…I don't think I'm ready. And if you want me to ever be ready, you're going to need to…I need time. I know I had time, but it's different now. You changed everything with what you told me. We're…we're whatever it is. Claimed."

A poignant smile twitched Spike's lips and he inhaled sharply, doing his level best to conceal how his unbeating heart constricted and withered with every word to cross her perfect lips. It was all right. Sure. He understood. It was simple, really. Maybe if Angel hadn't had that bloody soul of his stuffed up his righteous arse the last second, things would be different. But she'd seen it—she'd seen him, the bloke she loved—and everything had changed then. Well before Spike ushered her to his car. Well before she mauled his lips and took his cock inside her perfect little body. Well before she climbed out of bed and left him for what she thought would be forever. Well before missing him. Well before the claim.

It had been easier for her when the boogeyman wasn't someone she loved. She'd left her mum's house after a rather nasty fight, prepared and bloody well content to be at Spike's side. She'd verbally snapped at Angelus in ways no girl ever had, and it was Angelus she'd been prepared to fight in that last battle. To have her own defenses ripped away when the face she hated suddenly dissolved into the face she loved again had thrown her for a loop the likes of which no one else had suffered.

Buffy's reality had crushed her fantasy. He knew it; he'd seen it happen. He'd watched as she stood torn between worlds—between the kisses she and Spike had shared, the flirtation, the intrigue, the way he'd promised to know her body…and Angel. The sodding white knight. Spike knew she'd killed Angel; he also knew she hadn't said goodbye. No, she'd carried him with her all the bloody way out of Sunnyhell. She'd tried to fuck him out of her system by fucking Spike instead, but it had only confused her young idealistic mind to the point where she'd taken off. She'd left him because he wasn't the answer to her broken heart. No matter that she was the answer to his.

And perhaps she was sorry she'd gone now. Perhaps she truly had missed Spike. Perhaps she didn't know he loved her, or couldn't believe he loved her. Perhaps she'd arrived in Los Angeles and craved him because he replaced sorrow with pleasure. He could drive her body to heights she'd never before explored, and it was buggering hard to remember how miserable she was with his tongue lapping at her pussy. The harder he made her come, the longer she remained with him. She hadn't left him until he slept.

The unforgiving truth was Buffy wasn't prepared to be his. She didn't want it. She might want him, sure, but she didn't want his to be the face with which she awoke for the rest of forever. She didn't want to reach over and touch him. She didn't want to smile against his morning kiss. She didn't want moments of tenderness and intimacy—she wanted solace.

He'd given her solace…just not the sort that lasted.

It all came down to one central recognition: Buffy didn't love him.

Buffy didn't love him. She was his, but she didn't love him. The face of his salvation didn't love him. Spike had trekked through shadows only to find himself engulfed in further darkness. He could reach for the light if he chose, but it would not reach back. The light was so far from him. 

And thanks to his fangs, he had infinite time at her side. An eternity knowing Buffy could never love him back. He was locked inside forever with the woman he cherished, but he would never know the warmth of her heart. Even when they again took pleasure in each other's bodies, she would remain out of arm's reach.

"I don't want to leave you," Spike whispered softly, wincing inwardly. The words were so desperately pathetic. He'd be content just to sleep on the floor beside her if it meant being close. 

"Believe me," she said, her tone caught somewhere between compassion and irony, a small, sympathetic grin stretching her lips. "I'm really getting that."

"The pain—"

"We already…you're not going far. And I said it's just for tonight." She pressed her brow against the door frame. "It's _just_ for tonight. If you come in here, I'm just going to want you to fix everything and I can't let that happen." A pause. "Plus this is Fred's place and she said no more houseguests."

"I could fix things," he offered weakly.

She shrugged and continued, talking now to herself. "Could also be because she knows you're a vamp now and has no reason at all to trust you."

"I like fixing things."

"No reason to trust except for my word, but my word got her kidnapped by wannabes and stored away in some warehouse while you and I traded smoochies."

"It wouldn't be so bad to let me fix things."

Buffy leveled him with a glance. "Yes, it would. I can't keep asking favors from people."

"Suddenly takin' care of you's a bloody favor, is it?"

"Spike, _please._ If you care about me, you'll just trust what I need right now is for you to go away." She sighed. "Please don't go far, but…I need to think. I need to think and I _can't_ with you here."

He knew he was pathetic. He also knew he was an instant away from begging.

But no good would come from it. Buffy was resolved, and she had been since they'd left the alley.

And it was, as she kept insisting, just one night.

God, there was no way she knew how long a night away from her lasted. He'd suffered through so many since she left, and the thought of turning away from her now was enough to wish him into dust.

But he wouldn't beg. He wouldn't. She had everything else from him as it was; she wasn't about to get his pride.

Well, what was left of it, anyway.

"Right," Spike said, drawing in a deep breath and throwing his shoulders back. "Space, then. An' time."

"You can come back tomorrow," Buffy retorted quickly. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"Right. Tomorrow." A nod. "Right."

Spike turned and began down the hallway before he said sod-all to pride. One more night, she said. Just one more night. She needed time to think, and it was only a night.

To her, perhaps.

But he knew her. Spike knew her and he knew her well. And nothing in Buffy's gorgeously thick skull could ever be settled easily when she was so conflicted.

This was the first night of their new separation. The first of many more they would spend apart. The distance between them was too vast to conquer in a matter of hours.

She'd know this in the morning. When she awoke and realized that sleep had done bugger all to fix her problems. To heal her heart. To guide her decisions.

Buffy needed time and time was what she had.

He just hoped she figured out what she wanted before the next apocalypse swallowed the world.

**TBC**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

In all honesty, Buffy didn't know whether or not to be grateful when Fred neglected to demand answers. It was hard enough closing the door with Spike on the other side; a lengthy discussion would positively wear the Slayer out. And she knew this from experience; were she home and in different company, her every encounter would be a topic of dissection and interpretation.

Though admittedly, a thousand years ago and under different circumstances, she and Fred likely would have bonded over fatty snacks as Buffy related the silky contours of Spike's lips in full detail. But things had changed, and she was so much older now. So much older than she'd been just a few months ago. She was the mate of a vampire—the _eternal_ mate of a vampire, from what Spike had related. She was tied to him forever through blood. Because of the night they'd shared. The night wherein she'd selfishly jumped his undead bones and used the feelings she knew he had for her to erase all remnants of Sunnydale from her grieving mind.

She'd used him, and she'd been rather shameless about it. But it wasn't as though she'd felt nothing for Spike—quite the contrary, she'd felt more than she rationally should have. Ever since he'd cornered her in the halls of Sunnydale High, no matter they'd both been under ghostly influence, a spark had ignited in her belly. A spark she'd done her best to ignore since he first stepped out of the shadows and into her life. He was gorgeous. He was dangerous. Compared to her roll in the sack with Angel, Spike had been warm and considerate, as well as a surprisingly good shoulder on which to lean. Not only that, he'd cared for—and about—her. He'd genuinely cared about her. She might have fucked him silly upon arriving at their motel, but he'd made love to her afterward. In the shower. On the bed. After violence came solace, and Spike was there to provide it.

Now, however, her feelings for Spike were caught in a tangled web of confusion. Never had she thought his reentrance into her life would coincide with a crisis of this magnitude. Even before he reappeared, she'd wanted him back, she'd regretted leaving, and while every part of her ached for his touch, things were different now. Perhaps Buffy was feeling things due to the claim. She didn't think so—she felt no less conflicted now than she had before leaving Sunnydale.

Buffy simply hadn't been prepared for _forever._ She was only seventeen, for crying out loud. She barely knew how to reconcile her feelings for Spike with what she'd already been through; now they had forever hanging over them. It was too soon for her healing heart to be tossed into another relationship—a relationship like the one she was seemingly destined to have with Spike. One twisted with passion and anger and fire. Everything she never wanted to touch again. Not so soon after killing Angel.

Not when she hadn't yet determined if she was truly grieving him or if her pain came from being the one who killed him.

Either reality wasn't pleasant. Every time Buffy thought she was on her way out of the hole in which she'd dug herself, her foot would catch and her hands would slip and she'd feel herself sliding further into darkness. She'd thought she was over killing Angel a couple times now only to be proven wrong by the way her stomach would churn every time she recalled the betrayal in his eyes. But that was it—guilt. She felt guilt. She didn't think she actually missed him, and the strange thing was, it felt wrong not to pine for his arms or ache for his lips or the soothing reassurance he provided in…well, turning up cryptically to tell her she was about to die.

It felt wrong not missing him.

Almost as wrong as the unfair allegations she'd leveled at Spike tonight. Perhaps she had overreacted to killing Angel and under-reacted to what Dru had done to Spike because Spike _had_ walked away. Mentioning Dru as a possibility for Spike had been a low blow—one she'd known to be impossible for reasons which had nothing to do with the insane vampire's tendency to shish kabob her former lovers.

The way Spike looked at her before she'd left him, Buffy had known he wouldn't go back to his sire. He might not come after her for the sake of pride, but she'd known Drusilla would be at the very bottom of the last resorts.

And yet, she'd thrown that out there. She didn't know why.

Buffy sighed. Perhaps it was because an angry Spike was a less confusing force than the Spike who looked at her like she was a treasure buried by God. She knew how to respond to anger; responding to affection was too difficult right now.

"So…" Fred said, startling the blonde out of her musings. "The vampire…"

Buffy wet her lips. "Yeah," she replied. "He's a vampire."

There was a slow nod as though Fred were carefully weighing the information. "And…you're the Slayer."

"This is very true."

"And…he's not slayed."

The thought of dusting Spike had her stomach curling in pain all over again. "No, he's not," Buffy said firmly, her tone icy. "And he won't be."

"He's Spike. The one who gave you money?"

She raised a hand to her throat, her fingertips caressing the bite mark. "Yeah," she agreed. "He's the one who gave me money."

Fred wet her lips. "Okay…are you going to elaborate or are we gonna just go over the facts until one of us falls asleep?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Buffy replied, shuffling uncomfortably. "Spike's a vampire. He…our relationship is complicated. And—"

"You said you were waiting for him."

"I was."

Fred frowned. "And you let him go? I thought…I don't know, you hadn't mentioned anything, but I got the impression that you were kinda looking for him." She swallowed hard and wiggled, as though realizing she'd betrayed more than she'd intended. "Not that I'd know, or anything. But the way you talked about him when you mentioned the money he left you…it wasn't much, but I…I thought you…I thought you wanted him back."

The reaction was instinctive. "I do."

"And he went away?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "I know you heard what was said," she replied skeptically. "We weren't exactly quiet, and he wasn't—"

"He's angry."

_Justifiably so,_ she thought with an inward sigh, but the words she said were, "It's complicated."

"He thought you were waiting for him, too."

"Again with the 'I was.'" Buffy shook her head, folding forward in despair. "I don't know. _I don't know._ We were enemies not too long ago."

Fred nodded sympathetically. "'Cause he's a vampire?"

The answer seemed more than obvious. "Well…" Buffy's brows furrowed. "Yeah. But more than…when we first met, he basically—no, not basically—he _told_ me outright he was gonna kill me." A pause. "He didn't, obviously."

The brunette inclined her head. "Obviously."

"But…it got…" Angel's face floated to the forefront of her thoughts; Buffy shivered and quickly shoved him down again. She didn't want to think about him anymore than she already had, and though she suspected divulging her whole sordid history with Angel would give perspective to the complicated mess in which she'd entangled herself with Spike, she didn't want advice. Even with as unconditionally understanding as Fred was proving to be, Buffy was too gun-shy and jaded from experience to wade intentionally into deeper waters. She didn't want to be told where she'd gone wrong and where there was to go from here.

Namely because the option terrified her.

No matter their past, no matter what had brought them where they were, Buffy's wounded heart knew it could fall easily again. And she wasn't ready. She wasn't ready for anything permanent. Anything which would truly have her falling in love again. And she knew—she _knew_—if she allowed Spike to care for her, she would end up losing herself all over again.

This time, there was no cushion. Nothing to keep her heart safe. While she knew Spike would never do anything intentionally to hurt her, the harsh reality of his true nature would eventually unmake her. Angel had been harnessed with a soul; there was nothing harnessing Spike.

Perhaps before he'd actually come back, she'd thought she could overlook it. Before he told her this thing they had would be forever.

Because they were mates.

They were claimed.

She was so selfish. She'd wanted him, and now she had him…only her tattered heart didn't know what to do. Which course to take. She kept backing herself into corners only to cry foul whenever her skewed motives were challenged. But how could she hope to explain what she wanted when she didn't know herself?

"Can I make a teeny observation?"

Buffy glanced up. Fred's timid expression had her both tightening with tension and bubbling with laughter. There was nothing to lose, she supposed, thus gave her friend the go ahead with a nod.

"That Spike guy…if…I don't know what any of the words he said meant, but it seems to be…something involving the both of you?"

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. It is."

"Well…wouldn't it be better to figure it out together?" the brunette suggested shyly, casting her eyes downward immediately. "If you try and do it separately, you might come to different conclusions and just open up the door to more trouble." She paused. "He's…ummm…vulgar, but there was a lot of hurt in his voice."

The vulgarity to which she referred likely referenced Spike's numerous descriptions of his night with Buffy as _fucking_; something which smarted but remained true to what had occurred. She hadn't allowed for anything other than fucking at first. "The vulgarity came from the anger," she said softly. "I hurt him. I didn't want to hurt him."

"So—"

"It's complicated."

"And it will continue to be complicated until you uncomplicate it."

Buffy glared. "You will not fool me with your logic."

"Well…you care about him. I care about you. By right of contrast, I guess…" Fred sighed. "I don't wanna step on your toes, but I want…you seemed…different with him. He…can vampires…feel? 'Cause I wouldn't've known he was a vampire if you hadn't said anything. He seemed to…_feel_ a lot."

A shiver settled over Buffy's shoulders. "He does."

"And about you."

"He does."

And Buffy cared about Spike. A lot.

Too much.

Too fast. Too soon. Her heart couldn't take it. But there was nothing she could do about it. There was nowhere to hide.

And worst of all, Fred was right. Fred was absolutely right.

Space would bring peace. She and Spike needed to talk. She needed to understand what was happening. She needed him.

"Fred," Buffy whispered softly. "When Spike comes back…don't let me send him away, okay?"

"You—"

"Just don't. He makes me go crazy with confusion. But the second I get away from him, I want him back." She trembled and glanced up, worrying a lip between her teeth. "I left him and I've missed him. And then tonight…I just know I'm not ready for what he wants."

"What he wants?"

A pause. "I'm not ready for…but maybe we can…just until…"

Her voice trailed off, taking words with it. The slate in her mind blanked. There was no way to finish a thought when she hadn't yet decided how to proceed. How to go about the next day. And the day after. And the day after.

She needed Spike and she needed space. It was a classic Catch-22, and she didn't even know what that meant.

Perhaps she could be with Spike if he allowed her time to heal. If he was with her without confusing her with sex.

She didn't want to be without him in the interim; she just wanted time. So when she was ready to love him—truly—there would be no reservations.

She only hoped, when she tried to tell him, he would understand.

That she wouldn't make things worse.

* * *

Though she anticipated his arrival like nothing else, Buffy was strangely unsurprised when Spike failed to show up the following day. She'd felt his decision to stay away the second he had reached it—nothing revolutionary, more a sudden understanding. A sense of knowledge she couldn't explain but accepted as truth all the same.

She understood. After what had happened, she'd want to be away from herself as well.

Still, she couldn't deny it hurt.

"I spoke with Mr. Binns," Fred said over lunch. "This morning…when I stepped out to get the paper, I saw him. The apartment's yours if you want it. I told him…he's taking some furniture, but he's willing to sell some to you."

Buffy's brows hit her hairline. "His furniture?"

"His wife's going to a home and he's moving into a much smaller apartment. He says he can leave you with the bed, one of his sofas, and the kitchen table." Fred shrugged and nibbled on the crust of her sandwich. "Not a dresser or a television, though. Or anything else. And he wants five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred dollars?"

Fred nodded. "For the bed and sofa…and the table. Which, really, all things considered, not too much. I mean, yeah, secondhand, and you'll have that old-person smell to get out, but for LA prices, it's not too shabby. How much of Spike's money do you have left?"

Buffy inhaled sharply, ignoring the twinge his name shot to her heart. "Enough," she said. "He left me with…a lot. More than…well, a lot."

"Where'd he get it, do you think?"

"I don't know and I don't wanna know. I just…he got it for me." Of this, she had no doubt. Just as the sun would rise and the moon would glow, she knew Spike had procured the cash for her sake. He'd done it so she wouldn't be left to herself when she walked out the door and ostensibly out of his life. He'd done it so she'd have something on which to rely.

"And your landlord's okay with this?" Buffy asked softly, her heart racing. The notion of renting her own apartment was so far beyond her, and yet somehow it didn't seem strange to be sitting here, discussing it as though it was an actual possibility.

Namely because she knew it was.

She knew she was going to take it. She was going to be a grownup and sign a lease and everything.

And the decision came so easily, Buffy knew she was going to be in Los Angeles for a while. A long while.

Time needed a chance to heal her heart. She was still broken from what had occurred in Sunnydale. Not only with Angel—if Angel factored in at all. A part of her felt so detached from it she wondered why he kept surfacing at all. And yet he did—the perpetual bad penny, Angel was the perfect mood-killer. If ever a party needed a pooper, one need look no further.

Perhaps Angel kept surfacing because he, alive or not, was the thing standing between her and Spike. Not out of love; out of warning.

Buffy had already seen the worst love between slayers and vampires could do. She wasn't eager to try again.

Not that warning herself did any good. The rest of her was thoroughly sickened with a need to see Spike. A need to throw herself in his arms and beg forgiveness for being so flighty and uncertain. She didn't want him to leave her—the thought was crushing. She didn't want him to leave her, but she wasn't ready to be what he wanted her to be. What he needed her to be.

She wasn't ready to be the girlfriend. The mate. The lover.

Right now—just right now—she needed to be friends. And if he understood that…God, she hoped he understood that.

"He's fine with it," Fred agreed, her voice dragging Buffy from her cynical musings. "Really fine with it…as long as you can afford to give him two months' rent in advance."

"I can."

There was a skeptical pause. "I…I haven't even told you what the rent is."

"Believe me, I can afford it."

"Spike's money?"

Buffy swallowed hard, ignored the twinge once more, and nodded. "Spike's money."

"Wow…he gave you a lot, didn't he?"

That would be the understatement of the year.

* * *

It wasn't like she had anything to pack. In fact, the most strenuous part of moving into Mr. Binns's apartment came with signing the lease. It required two forms of photo identification and her birth-certificate; three things Buffy had left in her mother's possession. Her intermediate license, while had never been revoked, was rather invalidated as she hadn't passed the driving test or…any test. But it still had her picture beside her name in a secure, governmental fashion.

And it was still in Sunnydale. Along with her student ID, her social-security card, and her birth-certificate. And everything else identifying her as Buffy Summers.

Fortunately for her, Fred's landlord was the sort who could be bought off. It cost a pretty penny, but thanks to the William the Bloody Foundation, she had money to spare.

Not a ton, but some.

So she had an apartment. An apartment she could hold for two months at least. An apartment, a bed, a couch, and a table. She'd need food and clothing and utilities. The sort of luxuries she'd taken for granted while under her mother's roof.

Fred assured her a job at the library. A job meant money, which was good. Money meant budgets, which were bad, as Buffy was something of a shopaholic. Plus she and math were unmixy forces.

This being-an-adult thing was really going to suck.

But the suffocating pressure of living in the real world was worth the freedom of being her own provider.

And then there was Spike. Spike, who while angry with her, would never leave her alone.

At the first knock to her front door, a sense of underlying peace filled her.

Buffy inhaled sharply, her pounding heart betraying her nerves. Her bare feet padded across the worn carpet floor. She was at once startlingly aware of what little she owned. The rooms were practically empty. She had nothing with which to offer guests.

But Spike wasn't a guest. He was…she didn't know what he was, other than hers.

And here. Spike was here. He'd come back.

A small smile graced her lips when her eyes crashed with the sea of tumultuous blue. The soft eagerness on his face took her breath away.

She leaned against the doorway.

"Come in, Spike."

**TBC**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N:** Hey guys! I'm so, so sorry for the delay on this. I've been bogged down in school papers and exams. I hope to have the next chapter written by the end of the weekend, but no promises. My betas similarly have hectic schedules, therefore I've been waiting for their revisions.

Hopefully it'll be less than two weeks for the next update. My revised version of this outline has me really pumped about the story again. I hope you guys are still with me.

**Chapter 24**

Spike had envisioned a thousand things upon knocking on her door; the soft, gentle promise of her smile had certainly not been among them. Nor had the lack of hesitance with which she issued her invitation. There was no waver. No thoughtful frown. Nothing to suggest he'd been overly hasty in his return. Thank God for that. Staying away as long as he had—giving her the extra time he'd been convinced she'd need—had all but killed him. Every second was plagued with doubts, overwrought with fears over the uncertain future.

"Jus' like that?" he softly asked, eyebrow quirked. Still, though, he quickly crossed the threshold before she could change her mind. Not that it mattered; once issued, the invitation could only be revoked one way, and Buffy was without her redheaded friend to cast any wonky mojo.

Though he wouldn't put it past the mousy bird with whom Buffy'd shacked up. The Slayer had a knack for surrounding herself with smarties. Little Fred seemed no exception.

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, stepping aside as he moved past her. She pushed the door closed with a heavy sigh. "Sorry about that."

"'Bout what?"

"The…I don't know. Lots of stuff, I guess." She scrunched up her nose and turned, gesturing to the laughably empty room. "I'd say make yourself at home, but I'm without the essentials. Think I was lucky to get this much."

_This much_ evidently consisted of a couch and a kitchen table, secondhand by the smell. "Well," Spike drawled, his hands worming awkwardly into the pockets of his duster. "Work with what you got, I 'spect."

"Yeah." A pause. "How'd you find me?"

He perked a brow and turned slowly on his heel, unable to mask his amusement. "Well, besides the fact you jus' moved down the hall, sweetness, a vamp's nose always knows. Couldn't hide from me if you tried."

"I wasn't trying."

"I know. Jus' getting that out there." He grinned at her grin, feeling slightly more at ease, or at least confident he wasn't about to be escorted through the door by the scruff of the collar. "An' your li'l friend told me where to find you."

"Oh. So you didn't just come here immediately?"

"Well, I would've, but that would've been presumptive." Spike forced an awkward laugh, his shoulders tightening. Every inch of his body tugged him forward, imploring him to take her in his arms and pepper her face with kisses. Being this close was bloody intoxicating enough as it was. "This is okay, right?" he asked, swallowing hard. "My bein' here? You said you wanted a day—"

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that."

"'Bout wanting a day?"

"No—yeah. Ummm…all of the above?" Buffy held his gaze for a minute before slumping into a pout, pressing a hand against her brow. "When did this become so weird?"

Spike frowned thoughtfully. "Think it's been weird a while, pet."

"Well, unweird it. I can't handle you all—normal and stuff." She paused. "That so didn't come out the way I intended."

"There's no bloody normal for me, Slayer. I'm jus' tryin' to keep on your good side so you don' kick me to the curb again."

Buffy shook her head. "There will be no kicking of you to the curb. I kinda regretted that the minute I did it. That and…all the stupid crap I said."

Spike perked a brow. She seemed hell-bent on surprising him. They might not have known each other long, but in the time in which they'd been a part of each other's lives, he'd become rather privy to the fact that apologies and Buffy weren't concepts which went hand-in-hand, especially after a display of utter righteousness.

It wasn't like he didn't know she was confused. There was only so much she could take. Fuck all, if he weren't so desperate in his need, he might be exactly where she was. Where she stood. Things for him were so much clearer; he knew he loved her. He knew the claim, while not planned, was something he now wanted more than anything. There was no future if Buffy wasn't at his side. He already felt he'd waded through the darkness for centuries in order to find her; now that he stood before her—open, vulnerable, and thoroughly hers—it took all of him not to throw himself at the mercy of his pride and beg her never to let him out of her sight again.

Still, the eggshells on which he'd expected to tread were mysteriously absent. He didn't take for granted the very real prospect that things could change at the drop of a pin, but for the moment, he allowed himself to fall complacent. "Mind clarifyin' for a bloke, love?" he asked, his eyes shining. "You said quite a bit."

To his astonishment, she didn't object. Rather, the red in her cheeks deepened and she humbled him with a nod. "Mainly—urrr—the stuff about Dru."

"Goin' back to her, you mean."

"Right."

"When there's no way on bloody earth I—"

"Yeah, that'd be the thing. I was dumb."

"Bloody nuts," he agreed without shame or apology. "The bint—"

Buffy held up a hand. "I know. I know. I'm just…God, my mind's all over the place, you know? I start thinking one thing and then it gets all confused and I…" She trailed off with a hopeless sigh, meeting his eyes in a manner which begged for understanding. "I've figured some things out."

The certainty in her voice threw him. For whatever he'd been prepared, it wasn't this. "Oh?" he asked.

"I'm not ready."

Spike willed his mouth to keep from running. No matter how his will cried at the calm firmness harbored in her tone, he would let her say her piece. "Right," he managed, only because saying nothing went against his nature. Words were his bread and butter. He couldn't forgo them for want of comfort.

To her credit, Buffy sensed his incredulity. "I know, right?" she said, forcing a shrill laugh. "Big surprise. Big…whatever. Buffy's not ready to be all with the…whatever. But at least I know, now." She paused and fortified herself with a deep breath. "Spike…my last relationship was the end of the world…that being literally."

"Slayer—"

"And I'm still…I'm gun-shy. I'm extremely, incredibly, one-hundred-percent gun-shy. And I know I really don't have a choice. With the…" She paused and raised a hand to her throat, her lethal but somehow delicate fingers tracing the bite he'd given her. "The forever thing. But I'm just not ready to be what…what you need."

A long, tempered beat passed. "An' what," he said cautiously, "is it you think I need?"

"I'm not going to spout off a list," Buffy replied wisely, her eyes narrowing. "But sex. I can't do sex right now. Sex…it complicates things. And my life is already complicated. If it was any _more_ complicated, I'd need my own talk-show special."

Spike sniggered appreciatively. "'Slayers an' the Vamps That Love 'Em'?" he suggested, only to backtrack in the thereafter and mentally curse himself for revealing so much. If she picked up on his blunder, however, she didn't betray a thing. Instead, she offered a halfhearted chuckle and nodded.

"Something to that effect. But…point." She forced a smile. "I have one. A point."

"Always reassuring," Spike teased.

The blush which tinted her cheeks enchanted him. "And it's a good one."

"I have no doubt."

Buffy cast her gaze downward and inhaled sharply. There wasn't an inch of her which failed to tremble. "There are things I know but am not ready to…I dunno…I know that when you leave, a part of me goes with you. That when I left you, I regretted it…like I regretted sending you away the other night."

The darkness which had clouded his insides speared with growing rays of light. He knew, from her tone, not to grasp hope too tightly; Buffy's mind had a way of turning itself around the second she approached something which even faintly resembled a decision. "Can't say it was a picnic for me."

"I'm just confused."

"Believe me, baby, I'm gettin' that."

"And I'm not ready."

He drew in a deep breath. "An' you already said that."

"It's just as true now as it was two minutes ago." She flashed him an awkward smile without quite meeting his eyes. "But here's the thing…here's where it gets a little weird and complicated."

He snorted appreciatively. "Oh good. I was wonderin' when we'd hit that snag."

"I'm not ready to be _with_ you with-you…I mean, _with_ you like…like _that._ But I know I'll want it some day." Buffy huffed out a breath as though preparing for a marathon. "I have feelings for you."

It was truly a testament of his willpower that he didn't fall over in astonishment. While he knew it was the truth—there was nothing her kisses could keep from him—hearing the words actually breathe air was something he'd never thought to touch. And were it not for her guarded poise and the haunted look in her eyes, he would have lost any semblance of restraint and shoved her against the nearest flat surface: wall or table, it didn't matter to him. He just wanted her. Wanted her body against his and her mouth sucking his tongue. Wanted her pussy bucking against his hand as his fingers pried her swollen lips apart to explore her molten warmth. He wanted to take those feelings and mold them until they blossomed into love.

Until she loved him as desperately as he loved her.

"I need time," Buffy continued. "I need time to…get over what happened in Sunnydale. I need to…be ready to…I know when I…when we start with the actual…when we're actually together, it's forever. And I'll want it to be forever. But I can't have this thing weighing me down. I need time to get to know you."

"You don't know me?"

She winced. "I didn't mean it like that."

There was a pause. She worried her lower lip between her teeth. He wondered how she would react if he offered to do that for her. "Since we met," she began cautiously, "our lives have been…well, not normal."

Spike perked a brow. "Sorry to point out the obvious, pet, but me vamp, you slayer. Survey says our lives are never gonna qualify as _normal." _

"Give me some credit."

"I think history shows I'm willing to give you whatever you want."

The red in her cheeks deepened, and he was satisfied when she didn't contest the point. "Okay," she agreed softly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Well…when we met, you threatened to kill me."

"An' I s'pose you're gonna be lordin' that over me for the rest of my days?"

She ignored him. "We didn't start…until we…until that night at Sunnydale High. And everything that happened after that was…to defeat Angel and Dru. And after that…" She cleared her throat, her eyes fixing on a point on the wall behind him. "Well you know everything I'm gonna say."

Spike hesitated, then nodded.

"My point is, every time we've…ever since we became…whatever it is we are, things have been crazy beyond crazy." At last, her gaze clashed with his again, her open palm pressing hard against her brow. "I haven't had a chance to slow down and take things in…at all. It's either been the end of the world or killing my first boyfriend or…what happened with you in the hotel and now we're mated and I can't be with you because it's too much, but I can't be without you because it kills me."

"Buffy—"

"I'm only seventeen years old, Spike. How the hell am I supposed to be okay with forever? With having my future laid out for me more than it already was?" An ironic laugh tumbled off her lips and she gestured wildly at the room. "I'm supposed to be grateful I've made it this far as it is with my birthright chasing me down every alley…and now with you and the…I'm so muddled."

Spike sighed softly. "I know, precious."

"And I can't leap into just…being with you with my head like this." Buffy ran a frustrated hand through her hair, a long sigh rolling off her tired shoulders. "It's not fair to you. And I can't start confusing my feelings for you with _everything_ else that's happened in the last few weeks. When I'm with you…when we…I want it to be because I know for sure that I'm ready…not because you're the only one I can have because of the claim."

If her words didn't render him completely and thoroughly hers, the tears shining in her eyes certainly did. All at once, the weight which had seated itself upon his heart alleviated and he felt he could breathe—in every context—incongruity acknowledged. The fears which had plagued him since he barraged his way back into her life had untangled. He didn't know how a period of just a few minutes could clear stormy skies. How he could go from being convinced he was doomed to a loveless life—to being perpetually the victim of unrequited affection—to surging with something he hesitated to call hope.

"I hate bein' away from you," he heard himself say. "The distance thing bloody kills me."

"Me too," Buffy agreed. "But we won't be apart if you agree to my plan. It's kinda against the point."

"The point?"

"I can't become ready to be with you if you're not here. So…here's my incredibly bad plan for the moment, but work with me, it's the only one I got." Buffy puffed out a breath. "You move in."

Spike blinked. A floorboard creaked. A door slammed down the hall. He waited for his brain to kick in with a translation, but none was forthcoming. Apparently, she meant it. "You want me to move in," he repeated. "You want us to…live together?"

"Yes."

"That's invitin' danger, love, if space is what you need."

"No, it's not. Because this is important to you, too. I just need…can we just be friends for a while?" She glanced down again. "If that's not something you think you can do, I understand, but—"

"Friends?"

A pause. She nodded. "Just until…until…this is the best I can do now, Spike. I want to be what you need, but I also need to do what's right for me. I know the being apart thing kills us both. But if we could just…without the head games that comes with tossing me into another live-or-die relationship at the moment…I need a friend right now. I need…I need to know you can be that for me, too, along with the other thing."

Spike blinked numbly and stared at her. He didn't realize, of course, that he was staring until she shuffled self-consciously. "Well," she prompted softly. "Is that—"

"I'll do it."

It was her turn to stare. "You will?"

"Well, I'm not bloody well letting you outta my sight again, if that's the alternative." Spike sucked in his cheeks and gave the apartment a once-around. "Not that bein' with you and not touching you's gonna be a right treat for me, but sweetheart, I…I know things are buggered for you. Things are a li'l topsy for me, too…an' if this is what it takes to be close, I'll do whatever you ask."

A small smile tickled her gorgeous face. "I keep forgetting this is also new for you."

"You're nothing if not self-centered."

She made a face. "Hey! At least you have some experience in this whole _forever_ thing."

He snorted. "Right. A hundred years is a go at eternity. I forget you youngsters are rotten at math."

"You have more than seventeen years, at least," she shot back, though her eyes were dancing. The air fell to brief companionable silence. "But it's…it's something we can do? This…friends thing. Even with the close living quarters and the…we can do this?"

He tried to rein in his eagerness, but the hurried bob of his head refused to cooperate. "I'll do it," Spike promised. "I'll give you what you need, kitten. If this is it, then consider it yours."

"It won't be easy."

That was the bloody understatement of the year, but he wasn't about to talk himself out of this. Now that he knew where he stood. Now that he knew how she felt. Now that he knew how she wanted to feel.

It wouldn't be easy; he didn't mind. Nothing worth having ever came easy.

And for all her flaws and virtues, Buffy was the only thing in his world worth having.

**TBC**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N:** I'm so, so sorry it took this long for updates. I've been extremely busy, not to mention occupied with other stories. I promise, though, I'm back on this.

My thanks to my invaluable betas **elizabuffy**, **spikeslovebite**, and **dusty273** for looking over this. 3

**Previously**: Buffy has moved into an apartment down the hall from Fred following her discovery that Spike claimed her. Though she isn't ready to dive into a relationship, Buffy has proposed that she and Spike live together to satisfy the needs of the claim. However, she has asked, for the moment, that their relationship be contained to "just friends."

**Chapter 25**

"With the way you go through cash, I s'pose one of us is gonna need a job."

Buffy perked a brow, selecting a piece of cheese-drenched pepperoni pizza, and stared at him. "You know, I don't know you nearly as well as I should, considering you've seen me naked…"

Spike's eyes twinkled and his tongue did something to his lips that ought to have been downright sinful.

"…but somehow, I feel that you're the kettle and I'm the pot in some very much overworked cliché."

"Jus' sayin'…" He lifted his bottle of beer to his lips and took a hard swig. Spike had officially been living in Buffy's apartment for an hour and a half, and they'd already done a run for junk food, beer, and placed an order for a fried Italian pie. "Eventually, I'm gonna be broke, an' then what will you do?"

She shrugged easily. "Ask Fred to move in and mooch off her."

"Clever."

"Actually, Fred mentioned something about me, a job, and the library." She nodded when Spike's eyes narrowed skeptically. "I know. Me plus job is bad enough. And like I haven't spent enough time in libraries. But hey, it's a job…and you raise a reasonable point."

"Bugger that."

"Bugger what?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "I was jus' poking fun. I got cash, love. Lots more where this—" He gestured at the apartment with his pizza hand, ignoring the two globs of cheese which splattered against the already imperfect carpet. "—came from."

A grateful smile tickled Buffy's lips. Things between them had been cordial, comfortable, since she put everything on the table. While the tension remained very palpable, she felt, for the first time in the past few weeks, that she could breathe. "I can't keep taking cash from you," she said softly. "It's not fair."

"Not fair?"

"You shouldn't have to fund me, Spike."

"Way I figure it, if we're mated for all eternity, you don' have much of a choice, kitten."

She arched a brow, shoving another bite of pizza into her mouth to buy time. The future was one topic she'd hoped to dance around a little while longer, even if she knew it was inevitable. There was no denying how comforted she was simply in knowing he was beside her. That he was with her at all. It was dangerous putting anything else on the table right now—even if her path was chosen for her, even if what lay ahead was inevitable, the lack of choice made her feel cold and isolated.

Made her life feel like nothing more than a stage play, and everyone save her got to write a part.

"I don't want…you shouldn't have to…"

"I take care of what's mine," he replied with a careless shrug. "Get used to it."

"Spike…"

He paused and glanced up. "Too fast?"

"You remember what we talked about?"

"The thing where I give you space 'cause you're not ready?"

She nodded. "That would be it."

"Yeah, but I don' remember you tellin' me I couldn't take care of you. Bein' _just friends_ an' not shagging you doesn' mean I can't provide." He gestured to the room. "You're lettin' me live here."

"Yes. I'm very gracious to offer you a room in the place your money provided."

Spike smiled softly. "Well, a good part about livin' forever is learnin' how to invest."

"You invest?"

"An' play a mean hand of cards."

Buffy arched a brow.

"A few may end up my sleeve," he admitted with a gracious nod, earning a bubbly giggle from her at the immodest manner in which he admitted his penchant for cheating. "I'll admit, the years have taught me a few tricks."

"You swindle."

"'S payin' for the roof over your head, sweetheart. Wouldn't knock it."

Buffy smirked, raising her bottle of Diet Coke to her lips. "I guess I can't get ethical on the issue of demons stealing from demons."

He grinned devilishly. "Who said it was demons?" His eyes dropped from hers before she could get indignant—not that she was going to get indignant, rather she thought she should for appearances' sake—and took a long sweep of the rather empty room. "So the old bloke who let you have the place only left you with the table…the sofa…"

"And a bed."

"How much?"

"Five hundred. Fred loaned me some sheets and pillows and stuff…but…yeah." She shifted. "Five hundred."

He nodded stoically, betraying nothing. It was the response she wanted; Buffy had absolutely no idea what the market value was for old furniture. She'd simply found it easier to take the offer and have something immediately at her disposal than worry about acquiring a bed.

"We need a telly," Spike observed, his gaze fixed on a rather notable spot along the wall where the previous tenant's television had likely sat. "An' a fridge for blood." He held up his bottle. "Blood an' booze."

There was no reason to be surprised at his suggestion, yet Buffy couldn't help the way her breath caught in her throat. And before she could help herself, words had tumbled off her lips, "You're not biting people?"

Spike paused, capturing her eyes with his again. Dragging her into an endless abyss of blue and wonder, sending shivers across her body and making her feel—for a frozen second—as though he could touch her no matter how far apart they were. Continents could separate them and she would still feel his hands. "You know the answer, love," he said softly. "You saw the blood."

She nodded numbly. She'd never questioned it; not really. In the motel room back in Sunnydale, in the room where Drusilla had pinned him to the wall and waited for him to bleed out, there had been bagged blood. Blood that had, alongside hers, saved his life. Blood that had fueled his emptying veins and given him strength to face Angelus and Drusilla. Blood that had helped him save the world.

And that night, a lifetime away, he had used that blood to link her to him forever.

"I know," she agreed. Then, sheepishly, she added, "I just had to ask."

He grinned. "'Course you did. You're the Slayer, aren't you?"

"Now and forever."

The word made her shiver. She didn't want to think about that right now. She'd much rather get back to the game of all they needed to acquire to make the apartment livable. "We should get a dresser, too," Buffy said, her voice strained. She knew he heard it and was more than relieved when he neglected to tie her to a conversation she wasn't ready to have. The _forever_ thing required major adjusting to and possibly more than one breakdown. It was all too much to digest in one simple night. "'Cause if we're going on this idea that I get to live on whatever you swindle from _demons…"_

Spike smirked at the word. "'F they're fool enough to lose their money, they don' bloody deserve it," he reasoned. "Doesn' matter what sort've blood's pumpin', demon or not."

"I don't want to live off money that—"

"Buffy, this city's a haven for sinners. The blokes I play against aren' parishioners. Most of them drink so much they'd kill their mother if she looked at 'em funny." His brows pointed upward. "Not to mention, it's not becomin' to favor one race above another. There's a word for that, pet."

She made a face at him. "Well, the Slayer can't afford to stop and be picky, now can she?"

"Absolutely not. We definitely wouldn't want her demonstrating reason."

"The point is, I'll want clothes."

He paused. "The point of your problem with demons is wanting clothes?"

"No, the point of money coming from you is that it's going to me to fund my wardrobe."

"A minute ago you were hesitant to take rent money from me."

Buffy shrugged easily and reached for another piece of pizza, eagerly drawing the strings of melted cheese dribbling over the crust into her mouth. "That was before you were swindling from demons."

"An' the occasional—"

"Please, Spike, as long as it remains demons in my head, the happier we'll all be."

A soft smile crossed his face. "All right, love. Whatever you say. So you fancy a dresser for your frilly girly things. A fridge, a telly…you want a phone?"

She waved a hand. "That's just an extra bill. And the only person I know lives down the hall."

He was quiet for a second. "You don't feature yourself ringing your mum anytime soon, then?"

"No."

"Buff—"

"No. And if I had a phone in here, I'd just be tempted." Buffy shook her head firmly. "I'm too confused to even know what to tell myself, Spike. Imagine me trying to hold a conversation with my mom, who won't care why I went away so much as she cares when I come back. You're the only person in the world who understands what happened that night and why I needed…why I need to not be in Sunnydale." She paused. "And it's…it's not only because of what happened with Angel."

The flicker of pain in Spike's eyes nearly gutted her, but he masked it in a flash. "It's all right. You don't have to—"

"It's not only because of what happened with Angel," Buffy said again, firmer this time. "I'm having to deal with that, yes, but…Spike, my feelings for him were already in the shredder when he got his soul back. I'm confused as all get out over what happened…and you're…my feelings for _you_ were all…with the there, and then _that_ happened…and then what happened after that just made for a big happy mess in the head of Buffy. I can't go home until I clear this up. Until I reconcile what happened with how I feel about what happened. I know how I'm _supposed_ to feel about killing Angel…what I actually feel, though…and then you." She smiled softly. "How I feel about you…well, that's going to be a jungle. And then there's the whole dealing with being of the mated and living forever…I can't have a phone here. If I cave and call Mom, she won't care about any of that, and then I'll never have it sorted. It'll be back to for me Sunnydale and I'll wind up under video surveillance for the rest of my life."

Spike was quiet for a long minute, his expression unreadable. "All right," he said, shifting. "So we need a telly an' a dresser."

"Do we need another bed?"

"No."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "One bed between the two of us? Do we need to go over the rules again?"

"It's a big bed," he reasoned. "I can be a gentleman when it's needed."

"But isn't it just—"

"Buffy…" His voice grew soft, his eyes heavy. And without warning, she felt her heart twist and invisible hands close around her throat. He had a way of changing the tone of conversations without trying. Of reminding her with a look how much was riding on this for him. How much he was willing to sacrifice for the—at times dubious—pleasure of her company. "I can handle not touching you. Not kissing you. Not…_feeling_ you. But please…please, just let me sleep beside you. Please?"

If there was a beat of hesitation, she didn't feel it. The lump in her throat forced its way downwards and she nodded before she could help herself.

She didn't want to help herself. Not then.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. One bed."

With the way every molecule in her body trembled at his smile, she knew she was in trouble.

Not for want of his body. For want of _him._

Anyone who could smile like that at the mere promise of sleeping beside her was someone she could definitely love. And her bruised heart was too tired, too worn, too afraid. She wasn't ready for this yet.

And yet here she was; ready to leap with eyes closed and arms bound into the fire.

She just hoped this was one she could survive.

* * *

The mattress might as well have been charted with mileage markers with the distance between them, but he felt every shift of her body as though she was pressed against him. For the first time in weeks, he felt completely at rest. The circumstances weren't ideal—he would much rather have her in his arms than across the bed—but he could see her. Touch her. If he inhaled, he would breathe her in.

There was no way he could have anticipated anything like this to come from tonight. He'd thought, at best, he'd get in a few words edgewise before she showed him the door. The soft smile on her face had floored him, as had the invitation.

As had her proposition. Friendship. No sex. Not right now. Not until she was ready.

Spike was in bed beside Buffy.

She was so close.

A long breath rolled off his lips. In all honesty, Spike had fuck-all idea how he was going to be able to keep his paws to himself. The battle was over for him; he knew what he wanted. It seemed he'd found himself in love with her so long ago, regardless of what logic told him. From the first time their eyes had clashed in the alley outside the Bronze, he'd been hers. It had just taken him nine long months to realize he was a goner.

The last time they shared a bed, his cock had been sheathed in her wet, molten flesh. Her body hadn't been closed to him then. No, she hadn't been closed, but she _had_ been breaking. It was a miracle she hadn't shattered completely. And wonderful as it had been, sex hadn't helped matters.

No, sex had led to his fangs thinking for him.

Sex had led to the claim.

And while Spike would never begrudge having Buffy tied to him for eternity, there was no mistaking what it had done to her.

How he'd taken her from one prewritten destiny to another.

Still, in everything they'd discussed, her words gave him hope. She wasn't ready to be what he wanted her to be—she wasn't ready to be his. She wasn't ready to be touched like a lover. She wasn't ready for a relationship.

The promise resided in the words unspoken: _not yet._ She might be one day—she sounded like she might be one day—but _not yet._ Not yet. Not with everything else.

And Spike could respect that.

He cast his treacherous cock a wary glance. It was his smaller head for which he'd have to look out. He'd been erect and ready to go from the moment Buffy showed him into the bedroom, and while it most certainly hadn't escaped her notice, she'd been good enough to trust him to behave. To respect her boundaries.

Buffy's trust was precious. He wasn't about to break it.

He, too, could be good. He could refrain from touching her.

It would be worth it in the end.

* * *

Buffy was accustomed to waking at all hours of the night, especially when sleeping in an unfamiliar place. She had no idea how long she'd slept, but it was still dark out when her dream faded to reality, and the fantasy monsters she fought dissolved into the soft blanket of tangible night.

She was in bed. In her apartment.

And she wasn't alone.

Something hard was poking her butt. Something hard, but not unfamiliar. Having shared a bed with Spike before, Buffy had experienced his body's—ummm—enthusiasm firsthand and, to be honest, had anticipated waking up much closer to him than she'd been upon retiring. There was no questioning his proximity, the arm which had curled over her body, drawing her to his chest, or even the temptation of his erection as it nudged her ass. No questioning.

It had been a risk she'd taken willingly, knowing full well there was no way he'd ever platonically shared a bed with a woman in the years since he'd been sired. Simply lying next to her was novel for him.

Novel for him. Dangerous for her.

Buffy sighed, shifted a bit, and closed her eyes. She'd been prepared for this. She'd been prepared for Spike to cuddle her, even craved it despite her self-imposed "hands off" rule.

Spike's hands on her reminded her she wasn't alone. His skin against hers enabled her to maintain connection she needed desperately, even if she wasn't ready to explore him again. Physical need was one thing; she was much too fragile, she knew, to indulge in sex while separating it from her emotions. She'd thought about this. A lot. She'd thought about it, shared her conclusions, and he'd agreed.

But she loved the way he felt against her. She loved the way his few breaths tickled her ear and drew wisps of hair across the back of her neck. She loved the way he mumbled and tugged her closer. She loved the way his cock felt against her. She loved everything.

And if she wasn't careful, it'd be very easy to forget herself and indulge in what he offered.

_Go back to sleep._ If this was going to work—this living arrangement—she'd need to get used to Spike and snuggling.

_I get the one guy in the world who likes to cuddle and it's a problem. _

The thought made her snort.

"Mmm…" Spike murmured, his fingers lazily gliding back and forth across her belly. "Buffy…"

Her heart thundered. Every nerve was suddenly ablaze.

"Buffy…oh God…"

"Okay," she said loudly, though evidently not loud enough to wake him. Buffy sighed and sat up, untangling herself from his embrace and kicking her legs over the side of the bed. "Yeah. This was definitely a dumb idea."

There was no way she was going to be able to sleep next to Spike and not jump his sexy bones. And that would be bad. That would be very much of the bad.

Her heart wasn't ready for the risk.

Thus, as quietly as possible, Buffy drew her pillow into her arms and padded out of the room.

No sense in bothering Spike with this.

She would simply sleep on the sofa. In the morning, they would come up with an alternate sleeping plan.

* * *

It didn't take long for Spike to miss her heat.

He wasn't surprised to find himself alone. Not surprised, but a little hurt.

Still, there was no sodding way he was going to let his girl shiver in the next room while he had the comfy bed all to himself. He didn't feel cold like she did. Daft chit hadn't even taken a sodding blanket.

There would obviously be more conversation come morning. Though he wouldn't sleep nearly as well without her, he was comforted in knowing he'd done right by her.

After carrying the Slayer back to bed, Spike closed the blinds in the front room to ensure he didn't have a toasty morning, and assumed her place on the sofa.

The distance was going to be a bloody bitch.

But he knew, he trusted, it would be worth it in the end.

For Buffy, anything was.

**TBC**


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

She was powerless to do anything but stare.

She hadn't felt the move. Hadn't felt Spike come into the living room, lift her in his arms and carry her back to bed. It had only taken a blink to fall asleep after lying down on the sofa. How long she'd actually slept in the other room, she didn't know; the only thing she knew was the living room wasn't where she awoke. She awoke in the bed she'd purchased from Mr. Binns—a bed she evidently had all to herself.

Spike had assumed the space on the sofa.

A frown depressed her lips, a long sigh rushing through her body. This wasn't the way she'd wanted to discuss the sleeping arrangements. At worst, she suspected Spike would be a little offended that she hadn't slept through the night at his side. He'd promised he would behave himself, and he had as well as he could. There was no sense in blaming his subconscious for acting like any man would in his situation. A man who didn't hide how much he wanted her and how he was determined to have her again, even if it meant waiting until she was ready to embrace a relationship of that magnitude.

He'd said _please_ last night. He'd pleaded for the right to sleep beside her.

"I should've just woken him up," Buffy muttered as she circled the sofa, irritated with herself. They had finally reached a point where she felt they understood each other. She was determined to work through whatever it was they had to work through, as long as she was allowed to tackle her own problems before addressing the issue of being claimed.

Lord knew what reasoning Spike had concocted to explain her leaving the bed.

Buffy wet her lips. She had nothing on except a _Slayer_-the-band t-shirt—on loan from Fred, though how Fred and _Slayer_ mixed, she didn't know—and her cotton panties. It was the same attire she'd worn to bed, but she'd already been under the covers by the time Spike emerged from the bath in his jeans…his very—umm—crotch-bulgy jeans. He'd done little more than grin sheepishly, wave a dismissive hand at his predicament, and slip into bed beside her with a soft, "'Night, sweetheart." Not a peek under the covers.

Not that he would have seen anything novel. Nothing he hadn't thoroughly explored.

Her treacherous mind flashed to their passionate night in the motel: Spike perched between her legs, his tongue lapping at her pussy as she writhed against him. And without warning, heat rushed to her groin. Perhaps it would be to her benefit to put on some clothes.

Buffy sighed, deciding, for better or worse, against it. She was throwing herself into the metaphoric frying pan, but she didn't feel like being anyone but herself while in her own home. If she and Spike were expected to live together, platonically as it was, they would have to get used to seeing each other in various states of undress. It was the norm when two people occupied such small quarters.

It was the norm in a relationship.

She frowned and shook off that last thought. She very much wasn't ready to consider the ins and outs of their agreement. Relationship though they had, the implication of the word was too heavy to bear at the moment. She preferred to compartmentalize the situation. They _had_ a relationship; they were not in one.

Sometimes the difference was _all_ the difference.

Spike was on his back, his left arm strewn over his eyes, his other curved over his bare chest, fingertips resting on his crotch. Unlike other vampires she'd known while sleeping—the one other vampire—he indulged in oxygen every few minutes. There was no rhyme or rhythm to the breaths he stole. No pattern. It simply occurred. One second he was perfectly still; the next, his sculptured chest rose and fell, a cool sigh lifting off his lips.

It was the first time she'd ever stopped to simply look at him. For all they'd been through—all the fights, the bitterness, the kisses, the earth-shattering sex—she'd never paused to take him in. He was such a strange vampire. He defied convention, eradicating the norm of what she'd learned and replacing her knowledge with a new school of thought.

Physically, he was a work of art, though it didn't take serious contemplation to arrive at that conclusion. Buffy had always thought him to be sinfully gorgeous in a manner that struck her as thoroughly unfair. Right from the beginning of their twisted, complicated acquaintance, he'd presented himself as something above the understood. He hadn't lunged for her; he'd teased her. He hadn't fought her; he'd danced with her. And when he defied the unspoken boundary between slayer and slayee, he'd become a more powerful ally than any she'd had before.

He was everything she was supposed to hate. He'd killed with those hands. He'd maimed with that mouth. He'd looked at good people with cold indifference, destroyed them, and gone on with his business. It was his nature—it was who he was. It was what the world had taught him to be. And yet, he'd helped her when no one else would. He'd helped her in ways no one else _could_ have.

Now he was in this apartment with her. Wanting her. Smiling at her. Buying her pizza and discussing things like what furniture they should buy. Acting like he was something other than what he was.

Acting like he wasn't a vampire at all.

Spike was very strange.

And she liked him a great deal more than she should.

She liked looking at him, too. She liked it a lot.

Buffy wet her lips and shook her head. She couldn't do this now. Not now. They had things to discuss. Thus with a step forward, she lowered her hand to his pale shoulder and gave him a hard tap.

"Spike?"

Nothing. Not even a grunt.

Figured he would sleep like the dead. Buffy rolled her eyes and edged closer. "Spike," she said again, her voice louder and accompanied with another hard prod against his shoulder. "Wakey wakey?"

This time she got a response. Granted, it was little more than a long, "Graaaaummmphh," but it was a definite improvement.

"Spike, I need you to wake up now."

He yawned loudly. "Well…" he murmured, not opening his eyes. "I need merry bushels of cash an' one of those li'l fried onion things. I'll give you yours if you gimme mine."

"You have merry bushels of cash."

"No, I have merry bushels of stocks, some that turn into cash." Spike flashed her a sleepy grin, the muscles in his scrumptious body rippling like a big cat. "You learn how to play the market."

"I never imagined you as much of a market player."

He shrugged easily. "What can I say, I'm a puzzle." His eyes fell to the scraggly writing splattered across her t-shirt. "Slayer?" he drawled, cocking a brow. "Cute."

"It's Fred's."

"It's appropriate."

Buffy shrugged. "I've never listened to the band. Are they any good?"

"Not really your cuppa, I'd imagine." Spike ran his fingers along his jaw. "You sleep well?"

"You didn't have to move me back."

"'S your bed, kitten. I'm jus' a houseguest."

"No, you're not," Buffy argued, frowning. "And it's not my bed. I bought it with your money."

"Money I gave you."

"Yes."

Spike stared at her for a minute, then waved a hand as though she was supposed to follow him to an obvious conclusion. "My giving it to you makes it yours, not mine."

"Spike—"

"I shouldn't've pushed you to sleep beside me, love. That was bloody stupid. I wanted it an' I din't care—"

"No, that's not—"

"—making you feel like you needed to…get away from me was—"

"I didn't. It was nice." A warm blush spread across her skin. "It was really nice. I…you made me feel…I loved sleeping beside you. You just…in the middle of the night, you kinda got cuddly."

His endless eyes absorbed her. "Cuddly?" he asked, his voice slightly choked.

"Yeah," she replied. "Cuddly. And…with…there was some touching. Not much, and nowhere…ummm…naughty, but…touching, and…you might've said my name."

The subject was having a notable physical effect on Spike. He ignored his swelling cock as apathetic parents might ignore their annoying child. His eyes remained locked on her. "I was having a very nice dream," he said softly.

The blush grew deeper. "Yeah."

"An' I was…touching you."

"Cuddly-like."

"An' that's bad."

_No._ "Yeah. Because we're not…you know, we're just doing the friends thing right now. Friends…no benefits. And this was our first night, you know, trying this. And…" She waved to roll over the words she didn't want to say. "I just…we need a different thing. A different sleeping arrangement."

"Because you din't like me dreaming an' touching you at the same time."

"No, that's not it."

Spike's perked brow stretched higher upward. "Yeah?"

"It's because I really, really did…you know, like it…and I can't."

"You can't."

"I can't."

"Like it."

She nodded. "That's right."

A small, sweet smile tugged at Spike's lips. "You don' make a lick of sense, pet. You know this, right?"

"I had a hunch." Buffy licked her lips and heaved a sigh, her legs carrying her to the empty cushion beside him. It was likely very dangerous having this conversation while literally at his side—her naked legs rubbing against his jeans and his drool-worthy chest even closer for girly appraisal—but she didn't care. "It's going to be weird getting used to this."

"When all I wanna do is shag you silly?"

Her blush deepened. "Well, there's that."

"I din't mean to touch you, kitten. I can't vouch for what happens when I dream. That bein' said, I love touching you." Spike's eyes warmed when she shyly ducked her head. "I always want to touch you. Always." He raised a hand as though to caress her shoulder, then thought the better of it. "But…this is important to me. You…bein' comfortable with this thing we have."

There was a beat; a long, hard sigh rolled off her back. "We need to come up with a new sleeping arrangement," she said again.

Spike shrugged. "I take the couch. End of story."

"No, not end of story."

"I told you, the cash stopped bein' mine the second I gave it to you."

"Yeah, but it's not an endless pit. Eventually, we're going to need to rely on your…ummm…investment skills."

"An' if that's the case, I want my money spent the way _I_ want it spent."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "So basically, you get your way regardless."

"Now you're gettin' it!" Spike agreed with a broad grin. Then he sobered, his expression falling soft. "I take the couch, love. That's the way it goes."

A pause. Buffy sighed hard and rolled her shoulders. "Your strategy, then, is to be completely wonderful?"

He winked. "Hasn't failed yet."

"I'll bet." She shifted slightly, crossing her arms. "I am sorry about…you were so…ever since you got here last night, you've been unusually nice and understanding."

"Unusually?"

"Well, considering you're a vampire with a rap-sheet longer than Mussolini's, you came in here, were nice to me, bought me food, said you wanted to sleep beside me, and then put me back in the bed after I…" She broke off, shaking with uncertainty. "I don't get you."

Spike shrugged. "Not much to get, from where I'm sittin'. Gimme a fridge with blood, a telly, a spot a violence, toss me a shag an' I'm satisfied."

"But just a few weeks ago—"

"That was before, kitten. Bugger if I understand it." A beat settled between them, then he exhaled and met her eyes. "'m not blind. I've been around for sodding ever, Buffy. I've gutted people for lookin' at me funny, an' I enjoyed every ruby red moment. But since you, I've wanted…more. I've never wanted more until you. An' yeah, that might be in part because of the claim…feelin' more because of what we did…but it started before we shagged. It started back in that bloody school. When we first snogged. When I firs' got a taste of you. I din't know it then but…it started, love, an' I don't know where it's going, but I know I wanna follow it till we get there. So yeah, if it means shackin' up with you…wanting you but not getting to touch you…being with you without…I can do it. Anythin' you give me is more than the whole of livin' the way I was until this. It's worth it to me."

Then, hesitating a beat, Spike's eyes fell to her lips before he leaned inward to caress her with a tender kiss.

While not a connoisseur of the art, Buffy had been kissed enough to tell the difference between a friend kiss and a lover's kiss. She and Spike had locked lips many times now, each more explosive than the last, each touch making her rattle with electricity. He'd loved her mouth thoroughly as his body rocked inside hers. He'd kissed her breathless in the shower of the motel. In the alley where he'd found her, he'd taken her in his arms and just about fucked her mouth with his. He'd never kissed her in a manner to indicate sex wasn't the objective. Not until now. The way his lips touched hers had her warming in places she never thought she would again feel heat. The hollowed chambers of her heart that hadn't known anything but arctic cold since the Desoto blasted out of Sunnydale and took her away from herself. His kiss was beautiful and chaste, and left her all but starving.

It wasn't meant to be anything more than a kiss, and yet she couldn't stop her tongue from pushing past his lips. She couldn't stop her hands from slipping up his bare arms. She couldn't keep herself from pulling him closer. Needing to taste him. Needing his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her. Needing so much. _So much._

Needing things she'd told herself she couldn't have.

_Stop. _

Spike had caved without a fight, attacking her mouth with fervor. He gobbled her lips like a man who'd wandered forty years just for this. She was devoured. Consumed. She was lost, and in those few seconds, she didn't care to ever be found.

"Buffy," he moaned, fingers tunneling through her hair. "Slayer…"

Her head tilted back, her eyes rolling to the ceiling as his mouth began wandering down her throat.

"Christ, how I've missed you," Spike murmured as his teeth scraped the claim mark. "You taste like honey, you do. Need to feel you, kitten. Need to feel you under me. Surrounding me."

Somewhere in the back of her head, coherent thought was making a steady return. But God, how she wanted to ignore it. She wanted to lose herself. Now. Right now. With Spike's kisses burning her skin, his hands abandoning her hair to slowly scale down her arms until he had her clothed breasts cupped in each palm.

"So warm," he gasped. "Slayer…" His thumbs perched over her nipples, gently rubbing them back and forth. "My Slayer."

It wasn't until one of his hands slipped between her legs that the coherent thought started screeching and loud. Realization slammed into her and before she could help herself, she'd braced her hands against his chest and shoved him back. Hard.

Then she was up. Up and moving. Moving fast. Moving because if she didn't put space between them, she would be in his lap, ripping at his jeans and impaling herself on his cock. And she couldn't do that. She _couldn't._ She refused to use Spike like that.

She refused to lose herself.

"I'm sorry," she babbled, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Spike. I shouldn't have done that."

"Buffy?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just…I have to…" A moment of weakness. Their eyes clashed. He looked so lost. So confused. He sat bare-chested on the sofa, panting, his erection strained against his jeans, his eyes drinking her in, not knowing what had happened or why.

"I'm sorry," Buffy said again, her eyes misting. Air thinned. Walls closed. She needed to get out. "Spike, God…I didn't mean…I'm sorry."

He swallowed hard. "I din't mean to…I thought you…wanted…God, I buggered this up."

"No. No, you didn't, Spike. _I_ did. I lost…but I can't. I _can't._ Not now."

And then she was moving again. She was moving fast, and she couldn't look back.

Couldn't stop. Couldn't risk meet his eyes a second time. Couldn't look at what she'd done to him.

Not lest she drown in shame.

She needed Fred. Now.

**TBC**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N:** Some wonderful person nominated **The Headstone **at **The Spuffy Awards**. Thank you so much for your kindness and support. It's much appreciated!

Thanks to **spikeslovebite**, **dusty273**, and **elizabuffy** for looking over this chapter for me. And, as always, thanks to my readers who have yet to give up hope that I will, indeed, finish this story…no matter how long it takes. Your comments and emails keep me motivated, even when it seems otherwise. Thank you!

**Chapter 27**

Let no one say Fred didn't have a knack for stating the obvious.

"You're not wearing pants."

Buffy wiggled, anxiously shifting her weight from one leg to another. "Let me in?"

"You have to pee?"

"No, I'm not wearing pants!"

Fred's eyes widened and she threw the door open without another beat. "Oh right," she said. "Why aren't you wearing pants?"

"Because I forgot to put them on," Buffy explained hurriedly, rushing over the threshold. "God, I've never been particularly modest, but I swear if Mrs. Hatfield saw me without pants, she'd give me another lecture against premarital sex."

Fred blinked.

"She saw me and Spike leaving last night for our junk food run and jumped to conclusions that were, while not incorrect, certainly presumptuous."

"See, this is why I always remember to put on pants before leaving the house."

"This isn't something that happens often."

"I'd certainly hope not."

"Fred?"

The girl smiled softly. "Want me to get you some pants?"

"That'd be nice."

Three minutes later, a very clothed Buffy was helping herself to a bowl of Frosted Flakes, trying to look as though she hadn't bolted down the hallway, half-dressed and wholly panicked. She hadn't given much thought as to what she wanted to say before leaving Spike and the sinful temptation that was his mouth; all she'd known was she desperately needed perspective. She needed a female ear to bend.

"Either I need to lose weight or you need to gain weight," Buffy said, sucking in her stomach as she retrieved the milk from the refrigerator. "I always thought my baby fat was kinda cute."

Fred waved a hand, taking a seat at the counter by the kitchen. "I'm just really bony."

"Thank God these are elastic in the waist."

"They look fine." A pause. "Buffy…is everything okay? I didn't make a mistake by telling Spike where you were, did I? I really thought that was what you wanted…you told me not to let you send him away again, so when he showed up looking for you, I—"

"No," Buffy assured her quickly, "it was very good that you told Spike where I was."

Fred blinked. "Then why are you running around without pants?"

"That's a perfectly fair question." She cast her head downward and rubbed her arms. "Spike and I…we came to an understanding. We have an arrangement now."

"An arrangement?"

Buffy nodded. "We're living together."

A pause. "Wow." Fred blinked again. "Considering you shoved him out just a couple days ago, I'd consider that…well, either progress or slayers and vamps just have a way of moving really fast."

An appreciative grin tugged at the corners of Buffy's mouth. "I've been a little hormonal recently," she agreed. "Like a nonstop stretch of PMS."

Fred's nose wrinkled. "Okay."

"Believe me, I'm not normally this…well, I'm not normally _this." _

"It's been rough on you."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Like that's an excuse," she replied. "Spike's been nothing but wonderful and I treat him like…well, he did want me dead a few months ago, but things are very different now."

"Your life is so strange."

She snickered. "You're telling me."

"What happened that sent you out of your apartment without pants?"

"You're really going to hammer on the 'Buffy has no pants' thing, aren't you?"

"It's just not something you see every day. And considering I live in Los Angeles, that's saying a lot."

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded, shoving a spoonful of Frosted Flakes into her mouth to buy herself at least thirty seconds during which to consider how best to phrase what she wanted to say. She knew she needed to talk, and if it were Willow rather than Fred, she knew exactly how she would begin. But Fred wasn't Willow, and it wouldn't be fair to either friend to utilize one in place of the other.

With Fred, she needed to start at the beginning. She needed to tell her everything.

The spoonful was chewed to the point of being liquefied. No more stalling. Swallowing hard and downing the sugary taste with a gulp of milk, Buffy sighed, nodded, and began with a quick confession. "Spike isn't the first vampire I've…had a relationship with."

Perhaps she was expecting an earthquake based on past experience; it didn't come. Not the judgmental eyes or the shocked expression or anything to suggest she was tainted by association. Fred did nothing but shrug and reach for the milk. "Okay," she said, shrugging. "Could you get me a glass?"

Buffy nodded blankly, moving around the kitchen in an almost robotic-fashion. "His name was Angel," she continued. "I met him…God, a year and a half ago? It was…nothing at first. I thought he was cute but annoying. Just some random twenty-something who popped out of nowhere to tell me I was going to die some horrible death or the world was ending. He made with the extreme vague when I asked for help, saved my butt a time or two, and when we kissed…it was fangs ahoy."

Fred didn't say anything until she had a glass of milk in hand. "You didn't know he was a vampire?"

"He didn't act like one."

"Spike doesn't act like one."

"Fred, you really don't know how vamps act."

The other girl shrugged. "I know those guys who attacked us the other night were very 'bite-first-ask-questions-later.'"

Buffy nodded, pointing at her as though catching a faux pas. "There you go."

"What?"

"Vamps very rarely ask questions later." She smirked, continuing, "Angel and I…we didn't really get together until about a year after first smoochies, and it was hard knowing if we were together or if we were patrolling-buddies-with benefits. He was…he was different, Angel was."

"Like Spike is?"

Buffy shook her head. "No. No, I…Spike doesn't have a soul. When you become a vampire, the soul leaves the body and a demon goes in instead. Spike is pure demon. Angel…Angel had a soul."

Fred paused, arching a brow. "How'd that work?"

"Something involving a curse with a really lame escape-hatch." Buffy exhaled. Despite however much she didn't want to discuss this, there was something undeniably liberating in getting the words out. "Angel had a soul, meaning he was just like a person but on an extremely limited diet and very much allergic to sunlight…oh, and he'd live forever. But he didn't bite people. He didn't hurt anyone. He wasn't…a conventional vampire." She grew quiet, her eyes focusing on a spot on the counter. "I loved him. He was…it happened so fast. We were just…and then I loved him. Then Spike and Dru came to town and everything changed."

"Dru?"

Buffy nodded. "You know…the girl I mentioned when Spike was here a couple nights ago?"

"I tried not to listen."

"We weren't quiet."

The look in Fred's eyes betrayed her efforts to not listen had been entirely in vain. "The woman who…ummm…nailed him to the wall?"

"That'd be the one."

"She sounds…ummm…nice."

Buffy snickered. "Yeah, a real prize. But Spike was totally about Dru. He came to town to make her get better…she was some vampire-version of sick, and the Hellmouth could make her better."

"Hellmouth?"

"Sunnydale."

"Oh." Fred's brows perked. "There are better nicknames, you know. The City of Angels, for example. The Big Apple. The Windy City. But the Hellmouth?"

"Well, it's…not so much a nickname as it is…what it is. The mouth to Hell. Or one of the many mouths to Hell."

"Ummm…"

"I know. Comforting." Buffy waved a hand. "He brought Dru there to heal her. Things happened. He tried to kill me, it didn't take. I tried to kill him, and he ended up in a wheelchair. Then Angel and I grew…ummm…pelvic, and suddenly he wasn't Angel anymore." A pause. "Apparently…his curse only kept his soul in place if he didn't get happy. And when we had…ummm…the, ummm, sex…he got…he lost his soul. And he turned…he was sadistic. He came after me through my friends…through my mother…he killed my Watcher's—my surrogate father's—girlfriend. And he tried to end the world."

Fred just stared at her for a second. "Wow," she said. "And I thought my breakup with Pete was bad."

"Pete?"

"My last boyfriend."

"What happened?"

A beat; Fred glanced down, blushing. "Okay, so it was in high school. I told him I was going to LA for college and since he was still into Nirvana and pot, it was over. And he took it bad to the extreme of…toilet-papering my house. But in my hometown, that was like…front-page news."

Buffy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Oh man."

"Yeah. And we had some tall trees in our yard."

"I really wish my life was that simple at times. Other times I think I'd be bored." Buffy cast a wistful glance to the door. "But it broke me…Angel turning the way he did. Saying what he did. Doing…I was heartbroken. And Spike wasn't happy, either. With Angel back on the side of evil, Dru was on him like white on rice, forgetting how much Spike…" She paused at the bad taste in her mouth. It wasn't fair to be jealous of the past, but God save her, she couldn't help herself. "Spike came to me in very bizarre circumstances. Let's just say…we weren't ourselves. Kissage happened. And it threw us both. We teamed up to stop Angel from ending the world…only Angel got his soul back but I had to kill him anyway." She paused for comments, but none were forthcoming. Likewise, it struck her as a good idea to ignore how easily it was to say those words. How much truth it brought to her own hypothesis. Sometime between Angel losing his soul and Spike coming to her aid, Buffy had fallen out of love with Angel. The little girl whose kisses he'd stolen, whose naiveté he'd taken for granted, had grown up. She wasn't that child anymore.

However, getting over Angel didn't mean she'd forgotten the hard-learned wisdom their relationship had imparted. Vampires and slayers were a messy, sloppy deal; she might have fallen out of love, but she hadn't forgotten the pain. The pain was still very much alive.

And killing him had killed her in ways she couldn't even explain to herself.

"Spike took me away when it was over," Buffy said softly. "I was so lost, but I needed to feel…and I…I jumped him in our motel room and we had sex. Hard, painful sex. But it was…more to him than that. More to me, too, but I didn't want it to be. And then by accident claimage happened." Anticipating Fred's question, she pulled her hair back to reveal the bite mark on her throat. "Shorthand, it's marriage. Marriage without divorce. Marriage that makes me never age. And that's why, by the way, I was so sickly not too long ago. Spike tried to explain it…since the claim's new, we need to be together to make it feel complete. To be claimed basically means that we're one, therefore to be apart makes our connection spaz. It's also why we decided to try this living-together thing." She paused again. "The thing is, even if Angel and I are very much of the past, I'm just _not_ ready to go from one emotional train wreck to…whatever Spike and I are. I care about him so much…really, it freaks me out, considering he has _no_ soul whatsoever—except maybe he's sharing mine now, but the jury's still out on that—and whatever we have wouldn't be a rebound. It'd be another live-or-die relationship that I can _never_ get out of. And God, all I wanna do is throw myself at him but I can't because if I start confusing…I don't even know him all that well. I mean, I do, but the circumstances have always been extreme and…well, they always will be but I can't control that and I rushed things with Angel and that killed me and if Spike and I fail at being claimed-people then there won't be anything left of me to kill 'cause I'll be devastated. I'm just not ready for that…and this alone is scaring me but I have no choice."

There was nothing for a long minute. Fred just looked at her, her hand wrapped around her barely-touched milk. Then, blinking, she shook her head as though forcing her thoughts to fall in place. "Wow," she said.

"Yeah," Buffy agreed dryly.

"You have a lot going on."

A beat, then Buffy laughed. Hard. "Now that," she said, covering her mouth, "is an understatement."

Fred grinned. "Well, it's…I do that. Why with the no pants again?"

"Spike and I were trying to sleep in the same bed. It didn't take. He got snuggly and then we played musical-sofas and this morning, when started talking about…stuff…he kissed me." Buffy held up a hand. "A friend kiss. I've kissed Spike a lot, and this was definitely a supportive _friend_ kiss. I'm the one who turned all whory on him. Massive lip-attack. And since I'm the one who put the boundaries…I just…I left him confused and probably some stuff worse than confusion and I needed to get out."

The empathy in Fred's eyes grounded her completely. "I get that," the girl said. "And I'm betting, even with the confusion and stuff worse than confusion, that Spike will, too. This thing is…well, over my head, but he cares about you. A lot. I'm just this bystander-shaped person and I can see that."

Buffy nodded, her heart clenching, her mind flashing back to the soft smile on his face and the way his words cascaded over her like a waterfall. He did care about her—more than she likely knew. Perhaps even more than he knew. And that was terrifying.

But not so much as the idea of facing him now—of facing him after what she'd done to him. After asking for space and then jumping his sexy bones, only to pull away when he began to lead one thing to another as any man—living or dead—would.

"You wanna go shopping?" Buffy asked suddenly. "Or…job hunting? I can get pants that don't make my ass look so big and…well, my cash is in my apartment, but I have enough that I can pay you back for—"

Fred held up a hand. "You need to get out?"

"Yes. I can't face him right now. Not after…that."

She shrugged. "Then we'll go shopping."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." Fred smiled warmly. "We're friends, right? This is what friends do. They're there for the boy trouble and the shopping therapy. Or so I've heard. I never…had…you know, friends who weren't total geeks."

Buffy grinned, spontaneously leaning over the counter to throw her arms around Fred's shoulders and hug her as best she could. "Well, all my friends _are,"_ she said. "At least the ones I had before I left."

"Then you might have a decent chance at putting up with me."

"I definitely wouldn't rule it out."

* * *

"Oh my God."

"Calm down."

Buffy glanced up to aim at Fred a well-deserved glare, but she couldn't see for the mess of tears in her eyes. Nor could she trust her feet to walk, even if it meant closing a gap of no more than four feet. The day had been going so well, too. Full of shoppage and girlish giggles and the unspoken hope that maybe, just maybe, thing would work themselves out.

Two hours had passed since sunset, and Spike wasn't home.

Spike had left. No note. No explanation. No nothing. He was just gone.

_Gone. _

"I chased him away," Buffy said, wiping at her eyes. She couldn't stop crying; she'd been crying now for a half hour, pacing when she could trust her legs and doing her best to not let all the inner-crazy out, though with zero success. "I did. I was so…stupid. I was _so stupid." _

Fred's hands were up, trying unsuccessfully to coax Buffy onto the sofa. "He probably just wanted to give you time," she said, her voice all too reasonable. "Maybe he needed time. You said he likes killing things. Maybe he went to…kill things."

Buffy shook her head. "He's gone. He left."

"This would be the non-stop PMS you were talking about earlier."

"Not. Helping."

"I just think you're jumping to conclusions."

"I never jump to conclusions!" Buffy paused, realizing belatedly the words had ridden out on a scream. She cast Fred an apologetic glance, then amended her statement with a softer, but no-less tearful, "Except I sometimes do, but I'm not now. I'm _not._ I feel it. I feel it…I felt it earlier, but I thought it was just…nerves. I didn't…something's wrong. He left. He's _left._ He left because—"

"Buffy—"

"He's gone."

Three swift knocks to the front door stole whatever fruitless comfort Fred was about to offer right off the girl's tongue. She and Buffy exchanged a quick glance before the brunette bolted to answer it.

"Oh God."

"See?" Fred replied calmly. "He just—"

"No."

"What?"

But there was nothing to say. No words to follow. Nothing that could hope to explain what Buffy knew. The trepidation squeezing her stomach. The knowledge crashing against her chest.

"It's not him."

Fred frowned. "Don't be silly," she returned, though her voice was shaky.

Then she opened the door. And froze.

Buffy was right. It wasn't Spike.

It was Gunn.

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N:** Thank you to my betas, and to the wonderful readers who refuse to abandon me.

**Chapter 28**

It was suddenly very apparent to Buffy why Spike paced so frequently. Pacing kept her moving—kept her occupied. Pacing allowed her body to speed alongside her mind. Pacing made her feel like she was doing _something,_ if only wearing down the floorboards beneath her feet.

"Again," she snapped mindlessly, not bothering to glance upward. "Tell me again."

Fred worried a lip between her teeth. "Buffy?"

"I need to hear it again." A long breath rolled off her shoulders. Her heels dug into the linoleum as she spun to aim her glare at Gunn. "Talk."

There was no hesitation. "We've been tailin' him for a few days…your boy. Briggs was convinced he was a vamp, and was none too thrilled 'bout lettin' a vamp walk away like we did. We got a rep, see. Word gets out that we were outsmarted by a vamp and his woman, and shit hits the fan."

"Who the hell would we tell?!" Buffy shouted. "We just wanted to be left alone!"

"I keep tellin' you, it was _Briggs,_ not me."

"You can imagine how much that matters to me right now."

Gunn glared at her for a minute longer before ultimately releasing a long sigh and glancing downward. "Look, I came here to help, okay? I came to tell you what I know, and what I know is my men grabbed your boy outside a bar outside a bar on Crenshaw. You weren't there to come up with some bull story 'bout him being a slayer and it didn't take much for him to flash some fang. So we—"

Buffy's eyes darkened dangerously. "What did you do to him?"

"I did nothin', I keep telling you! He was buyin' blood."

The revelation that Spike hadn't fed on a live person was surprisingly anticlimactic. The alternative hadn't even occurred to Buffy until she noted the astonishment in Gunn's voice. If her vampire was out to get sustenance, it would be bagged. Spike had stopped hunting a long time ago. Spike had stopped hunting _for her,_ and no matter what had happened earlier, no matter how she might have screwed up everything, he wouldn't do anything to hurt her now.

"So you decided to take out the world's only vampire who gets his supply from bags rather than necks." Buffy crossed her arms and barked out a derisive laugh. "You guys really couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?"

"You said you were both slayers," Gunn retorted, "and while you two definitely need to work on your act, I was willin' to buy it. _I_ was willin' to leave well enough alone. You took out the vamps in the alley and you didn't look to be hurtin' nobody. Plus you got a tan. Not much of one, but more than a vamp. It wasn't me who decided to hunt ya'll down, all right?"

Buffy frowned and rubbed her arms self-consciously.

"I didn't get into this to be as bad as what's out there. I ain't seen a vamp worth savin' yet, but I've seen a fucking lot, so I was willin' to let you walk. It's my gang." He paused. "It _was_ my gang. Briggs thinks he'd be a better leader 'cause he doesn't use his head."

Fred's nose wrinkled. "Charming gang you've got there."

"On the streets, it's act before you think, 'cause if you don't, you could find yourself at the wrong end of some ugly's fangs," Gunn retorted shortly. "Briggs doesn't think. He just acts. And havin' a vamp walk away had his shit all in a fury. It wasn't hard to track your boy down. We found and grabbed him, and now they're after you."

"Because I'm the Slayer and they think that's some sort of demon?"

Gunn grinned wryly. "No. They don't got no idea what a slayer is."

"And you do?"

"Let's just say I did my homework."

Buffy blinked in surprise. "You looked me up?"

Gunn favored her with a sideways glance. "Do I look like I got a library card?" he asked, spreading his arms demonstrably. "No. I just talked up the few vamps I found between meetin' you and grabbin' him. Said the Slayer was a girl—a few said her name was Buffy—"

Another surprised beat. She had no idea anyone out there—especially in the demon underground—knew her name. "What?"

The renegade demon hunter offered a lazy shrug. "Apparently, girl, you're all famous and shit. Word has it you took out somethin' called the Master…and while I got no idea what that is, it sounded like it needed taking out."

A small smile tugged on the corners of her mouth but she killed just as quickly.

"Also said," Gunn continued, "that you stopped some other asshole from endin' the world."

"They knew that?"

"Not all, but a few. Like I said, you're famous." He smiled grimly. "But your boy is not. Not as a slayer, anyway. Word is there can only be one at a time, and they never have dicks."

Buffy's surprise hardened into revulsion. "You're disgusting."

"Call it like I see it," Gunn retorted. "And as I've said, even if I ain't right 'bout all slayers bein' girls, there ain't no sense tellin' me your boy's a slayer. Slayers don't got fangs from what I've heard."

"I still don't understand why you guys even care about Spike," Fred offered before the Slayer's growing outrage could pour into words. "If you knew what Buffy is, then why not leave this one vampire to her?"

"For the _thousandth_ time, it wasn't me!" Gunn's eyes shifted back to Buffy. "I had it figured out that night. Briggs did, too, but he wasn't so calm about it, was he? We trailed your vamp, saw him buyin' blood, and got him to flash his uglies. I don't get it, but he wasn't hurtin' nobody, so I figured he was on your leash." He paused. "Once again: you're the Slayer. Your vamp wasn't committing a crime. I guessed he was housetrained. Briggs thought differently."

"So he grabbed him."

"That's right."

"Spike is being held by a bunch of vampire hunters who are just waiting on _me_ to do something stupid so they can stick something pointy in his chest."

"And you're here," Fred intervened, "'cause you think Briggs is wrong."

Gunn rolled his eyes. "I'm glad I'm finally getting through to you. Didn't realize I'd need a translator. I know I don't look it, but I'm pretty smart. The girl is what she says she is…" He waved generally at Buffy. "I figure if she says he's okay, then he's okay. And that, yet again, is why I'm here." A pause. "Spike told me where to find you."

Buffy nodded. "Yeah? And you know where to find him."

"He said he wants you to stay away. Don't wanna put you in danger and shit."

"Right," she agreed, rolling her eyes. "That's happening."

Gunn snickered. "He said you'd say that; he just wanted me to warn you. Briggs tossed me over officially before I left, using the cock idea that I ain't tough enough. He got backing, and 'cause he was right about blondie bein' a vamp. Letting you go cost me." He shifted. "So now they're all hot to string you up beside him. They just don't know where to look for you." A brief pause. "Your vamp hasn't told nobody but me where you are."

"Spike wouldn't give that information over lightly," Fred insisted, her voice shaking. "I mean, I don't know him well, but—"

"Yeah, he was stubborn as all hell," Gunn agreed, "but he also saw me and Briggs throwin' it down on what to do about her—" He pointed to Buffy. "—if we saw her. Guess the vamp thought I was trustworthy, but he strictly said you ain't to come after him."

"Like _hell,"_ Buffy all but growled. "Spike wanted you to warn me. Well, you did. Briggs or whoever can come at me with whatever he wants; I don't give a crap. Spike is _mine,_ and I am sure as hell _not_ leaving him there to be staked or tortured or God knows what else your men are doing to him."

"My men don't torture."

A placidly frightening smile split her lips. "Right now the fact that you know where Spike is and how many people stand between me and him is the only thing saving your ass from being thoroughly kicked, so let's not argue over semantics. You know I'm going after him."

Gunn glared at her for a long beat before breaking off with a nod. "Yeah."

"And if I find Briggs, I'll put him on life support."

"He's gonna have muscle."

"Wow. I'm terrified." Buffy shook her head hard, her pacing breaking for the bedroom, her voice carrying into the living area as she began a frantic gathering of her limited resources. For a vampire slayer in a big city, she was low on stakes and even lower on assets so far as weaponry. There were a few stakes and a long carving knife she honestly had no recollection of owning—but it was there in her stash, and she would use it. "As you mentioned, I killed the Master. I've stopped the apocalypse—twice, I might add. And I lived on the mouth of Hell for two years. A few little boys with weapons—"

"Hey!"

"—are not going to intimidate me." Buffy stormed back into the living room with a bag of lethal goodies over her shoulder. She met Gunn's glare with a look of cold indifference.

"We're not _little boys."_

"Well, your friends sure as hell are acting like it," she snapped. "Spike wasn't hurting anyone—"

"And that's why I'm here!"

"And that's why you're going to take me to him." She drew to a sudden halt by the door, her hand diving into her jeans-pocket to ensure she had her key. "Let's go, hotshot." She glanced to Fred, who stood eagerly by the place on the wall where the previous tenant's television had stood. "You're staying here."

"Buffy!"

Gunn nodded. "She's right. You ain't goin'."

"Ahab here is gonna take me to Spike. He knows where he is, and while personally I could give a crap if I lose him, if I lost you, I'd be very upset."

"Anyone ever told you you're one hell of a people person?" Gunn grumbled, moving to open the door. "I didn't hafta come here at all, y'know. I'm doin' you a favor."

"And after my ma…after Spike is back here—back home—I'm sure we'll be the bestest of friends. Right now, you're the guy I'd shove in front of a bus if it'd help me get to _my_ vampire." Buffy plastered on a brilliant smile. "Lead the way, Ahab."

"I'm not gonna like you, am I?"

Buffy shrugged. "You gotta get to know me. Let's go! Fred…" She leveled a warning glare at her friend. "You follow us and—"

"No. No following. Staying. I'll…ummm…I'll be here…though if you're not back by tomorrow, I will call the cops."

"Fair enough."

Buffy glanced back to Gunn, waiting for him to shuffle his way through the door. When he was a safe distance ahead of her, she turned to follow.

Watching him carefully with every step he took.

Hoping against hope they weren't too late.

* * *

It was largely rewarding to know he could still make grown men shake with fear simply by glaring, even if his yellow eyes were puffed and swollen. Briggs was a sadistic git, but he didn't like dealing with prey that could look at him. He wasn't the sort for long, drawn out torture sessions, even with creatures he considered subhuman. Several times already, he'd had to refrain from shoving a stake into Spike's chest. It was easier dealing with vamps when they were nothing but dust. When they were alive—or in a position to mimic life—they ran the risk of seeming human.

Honestly, Spike had gotten himself into hairier situations than this, and he always managed to escape. If not by cunning and wit, then most certainly by dumb luck. Last time, he'd had Buffy to draw the sword from his gut and thicken his blood with her rich taste.

_Buffy. _

She was coming after him. He knew it, of course. Knew telling her to stay away would fix her beautifully stubborn head to do the opposite. Knew because, even if she weren't linked to his blood, she cared for him. She cared deeply…even more than she realized.

The look in her eyes before she bolted down the hallway had told him as much. It was burning her from the inside—the need to touch and feel, to taste and savor. She wanted him. She wanted him desperately, but she feared getting hurt. She feared what would happen if she threw herself into the fray again. She feared him—not because of what he was, rather what he could do to her.

She needed distance and tenderness at the same time. She needed him.

Her name remained a mantra on his lips. A prayer of hope he sent into the swirling abyss. Buffy was his anchor—it seemed she always had been. Even in the time before he knew her, there was always the hope of _something_ greater to keep him grounded.

There was always the hope of Buffy. Before he knew her name, her face, he knew her. For so long, he'd thought he'd found her in someone else, he hadn't even noticed how vacant his life was until the night he saw Buffy dance.

Until he saw her.

"Your girlfriend is comin', ain't she?"

Spike forced open his left eye, centering on the hazy form addressing him. "Not rightly soon enough," he drawled.

"You know what we're gonna do to her, don't you?"

He didn't reply; there was no need to reply. Briggs was trying to bait him, and he wasn't going to allow the wanker the satisfaction.

Though if he went into gruesome detail of his plans involving Buffy, he might find himself with his brains leaking out of a smashed skull the second Spike was freed. But from where he was—tied to a wire-fence which had been matted against the wall of the street gang's hideout—there was little he could do. Every inch of his body ached. His jaw was sore from clenching and his gums tingled with the need to fasten around a nice, ripe, juicy human throat.

He knew he was in bad shape. A few broken bones. A few scars courtesy of lazy swings with rusty knives. Large knots and welts doctored his legs and arms, and his chest likely resembled a patchwork quilt. He hadn't screamed, though. Not once. While it hurt like a bitch, the children had done little more to him than Angelus had in the early days.

"I know what you think you're gonna do," Spike replied with a bloody, lopsided grin. "Gonna be fun to have a front row seat."

Briggs's eyes narrowed. "She's gonna—"

"Be fuckin' fury in motion. An' she's gonna kick every inch of your ass."

"No little white girl ain't gonna get the better end of me."

"Call her that," Spike replied, breathing hard, "an' you'll jus' make her angrier."

"Think that worries me?"

There was no sense in offering a retort. None at all. Not with Briggs's eyes filling with fear. Not with his pulse leaping, his heart thundering just a bit harder. Likewise, there was no sense in talking up Buffy's legend.

She would be here soon. She would.

And she would tear these walls apart.

**TBC**


End file.
